HE     MODERN     LIBRARY 

OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 

POEMS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN 


INTRODUCTION 


By  Carl  Sandburg 

In  certain  particulars  Walt  Whitman's  book, 
"Leaves  of  Grass,"  stands  by  itself  and  is  the 
most  peculiar  and  noteworthy  monument  amid 
the  work  of  American  literature. 

First,  as  to  style.  In  a  large  and  growing 
circle  of  readers  and  critics,  it  is  regarded  as 
the  most  original  book,  the  most  decisively  indi 
vidual,  the  most  sublimely  personal  creation  in 
American  literary  art. 

Second,  as  to  handling  by  critics  and  com 
mentators.  It  is  the  most  highly  praised  and  the 
most  deeply  damned  book  that  ever  came  from 
an  American  printing  press  as  the  work  of  an 
American  writer ;  no  other  book  can  compete 
with  it  in  the  number  of  bouquets  handed  it  by 
distinguished  bystanders  on  one  side  of  the 
street  and  in  the  number  of  hostile  and  nasty 
brickbats  flung  by  equally  distinguished  by 
standers  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

Third,  as  to  personality.  It  is  the  most  in 
tensely  personal  book  in  American  literature, 
living  grandly  to  its  promissory  line,  "who 
touches  this  touches  a  man,"  spilling  its  multi 
tude  of  confessions  with  the  bravery  of  a  first- 
rate  autobiography. 

I.    $76 


Fourth,  as  to  scope  of  life  work.  It  packs 
within  its  covers,  does  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  the 
life  and  thought  and  feeling  of  one  man;  it  was 
first  published  when  the  author  was  36  years 
of  age  and  he  actually  never  wrote  another 
book  even  though  he  lived  to  be  73  years  of 
age ;  what  he  did  all  the  rest  of  his  life  after 
publishing  the  first  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
was  to  rewrite  and  extend  the  first  book. 

Fifth,  as  to  literary  rank  abroad.  No  other 
American  poet,  except  Poe,  has  the  name,  the 
persistent  audiences  across  decades  of  time,  and 
the  pervasive  influence,  credited  to  Walt  Whitman 
as  an  American  writer,  an  American  force  in 
Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  Australia,  and  the  archipel 
agoes  of  the  sea. 

Sixth,  as  to  influence  in  America.  No  other 
American  book  has  so  persistent  a  crowd  of 
friends,  advocates  and  sponsors  as  that  which 
from  decade  to  decade  carries  on  the  ballyhoo  for 
"Leaves  of  Grass";  in  Chicago,  as  an  instance, 
Walt  Whitman  is  the  only  dead  or  living  Amer 
ican  author  whose  memory  is  kept  by  an  in 
formal  organization  that  memorializes  its  hero 
with  an  annual  dinner. 

Seventh,  as  to  Americanism.  "Leaves  of 
Grass"  is  the  most  wildly  keyed  solemn  oath 
that  America  means  something  and  is  going 
somewhere  that  has  ever  been  written;  it  is 
America's  most  classic  advertisement  of  itself  as 
having  purpose,  destiny,  banners  and  beacon- 
fires. 

Therefore — because  of  the  foregoing  seven 
itemized  points — and  because  there  are  further 
points  into  which  the  annals  might  be  lengthened 
— and  because  still  furthermore  there  are  great 
and  mystic  points  of  contact  that  cannot  be 
captured  in  itemized  information  —  therefore 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  is  a  book  to  be  owned,  kept, 

IV 


loaned,  fought  over,  and  read  till  it  is  dog-eared 
and  dirty  all  over. 

It  was  in  1855  that  Whitman  offered  the 
American  public  its  first  chance  at  his  poetry. 
Because  no  publisher  of  that  day  cared  to  under 
take  publication  of  the  book,  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
the  poet  was  his  own  publisher.  That  is,  he  in 
vited  himself  to  take  a  header  into  literature, 
accepted  the  invitation,  and  went  to  the  party 
unabashed,  in  his  shirtsleeves  and  in  a  slouch  hat. 

There  has  been  mention  on  occasion  of  Amer 
ican  "shirtsleeve  diplomacy."  Whitman  is  the 
commanding  instance  in  shirtsleeve  literature. 
A  second  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  came  out 
in  1856.  And  the  poet  published  as  a  frontispiece 
a  picture  of  himself  in  shirtsleeves,  knockabout 
clothes,  the  left  hand  in  the  pants  pocket,  the 
right  hand  on  the  hip  akimbo,  the  hat  tossed  at  a 
slant,  and  the  head  and  general  disposition  of  the 
cosmos  indicating  a  statement  and  an  inquiry, 
"Well,  here  we  are;  it  looks  good  to  us;  and 
while  it  isn't  important,  how  do  you  like  us?" 

On  the  cover  of  the  book  were  the  words 
gilded  on  a  green  background:  "I  greet  you  at 
the  beginning  of  a  great  career — R.  W.  Emer 
son."  The  generally  accredited  foremost  repu 
table  figure  of  American  letters  and  philosophy 
had  written  those  words  to  Whitman  the  year 
before. 

And  in  order  to  let  everybody  in  and  give  free 
speech  full  play,  there  was  printed  as  the  last 
thing  in  the  book,  a  criticism  by  a  reviewer  in 
the  Boston  Intelligencer  of  May  3,  1856,  closing 
with  this  paragraph:  "This  book  should  find  no 
place  where  humanity  urges  any  claim  to  re 
spect,  and  the  author  should  be  kicked  from  all 
decent  society  as  below  the  level  of  the  brute. 
There  is  neither  wit  nor  method  in  his  disjointed 
babbling,  and  it  seems  to  us  he  must  be  some 
escaped  lunatic,  raving  in  pitiable  delirium." 

V 


That  was  a  beginning.  It  isn't  over  yet.  The 
controversy  yet  rises  and  subsides. 

The  best  loved  figure  in  American  literature — 
N^  by  those  who  loved  him — he  is  counted  also  the 
most  heartily  damned  figure — by  those  who 
damned  him. 

The  most  highly  praised  and  the  most  roundly 
excoriated  book  America  has  produced — that  is 
Walt  Whitman's  "Leaves  of  Grass." 

"He  is  the  poet  who  brought  the  slop-pail  into 
the  parlor,"  wrote  one  critic.  "He  is  one  of  the 
sublime  figures  of  all  human  annals,  one  to  be 
set  for  companionship  with  Confucius,  Socrates, 
and  the  teachers  of  high  and  sacred  living," 
wrote  another  critic. 

"The  man  was  mad,  mad  beyond  the  cavil  of 
a  doubt,"  wrote  Max  Nordau.  Another  Euro 
pean  critic,  Gabriel  Sarrin,  wrote :  "He  is  the 
apostle  of  the  idea  that  man  is  an  indivisible 
fragment  of  the  universal  Divinity." 

Walt  Whitman  is  the  only  established  epic 
poet  of  America.  He  is  the  single  American  fig 
ure  that  both  American  and  European  artists 
and  critics  most  often  put  in  a  class  or  throw 
into  a  category  with  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Homer. 
He  is  the  one  American  writer  that  Emerson, 
Burroughs,  John  Muir,  Edward  Carpenter,  and 
similar  observers  enter  in  their  lists  as  having  a 
size  in  history  and  an  importance  of  utterance 
that  places  him  with  Socrates,  Confucius,  Lao 
Tse,  and  the  silver-grey  men  of  the  half-worlds 
who  left  the  Bhagavad  Gita  and  writings  known 
most  often  as  sacred. 

In  stature,  pride,  stride,  and  scope  of  person 
ality,  he  is  a  challenger.  He  warns  us  to  come 
with  good  teeth  if  we  are  to  join  in  his  menu — 
to  bring  along  our  rough  weather  clothes.  He 
is  likely  any  time  to  tip  us  out  of  the  boat  to  see 
whether  we  swim  or  sink.  And  there  are  blanks 
to  be  filled  in  among  his  writings  where  he  seems 
'VI 


to  have  whispered,  "I  am  going  away  now  and 
I  leave  you  alone  to  work  it  out  for  yourself — - 
you  came  alone  and  you  will  have  to  go  away 
alone." 

Walt  Whitman  wrote  his  vital  passages  at  the 
height  of  America's  most  stormily  human  period 
of  history.  "We  live  in  the  midst  of  alarms; 
anxiety  beclouds  the  future;  we  expect  some 
new  disaster  with  each  newspaper  we  read,"  said 
Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  famous  "Lost  Speech'" 
delivered  the  same  year  Walt  Whitman's  "Leaves 
of  Grass"  was  first  published. 

"Blood  will  flow  .  .  .  and  brother's  hand  will 
be  raised  against  brother !"  was  the  passionate 
outcry  of  that  same  speech,  which  because  of  its 
tenor  of  violence  was  withheld  from  publication 
and  distribution  by  its  orator. 

In  this  same  decade,  Charles  A.  Dana,  manag 
ing  editor  of  the  New  York  Tribune,  was  writ 
ing:  "It  may  be  that  the  day  of  revolutions  is 
past,  but,  if  so,  why  are  they  there  in  such  abund 
ance?  .  .  .  Let  others  give  aid  and  comfort  to 
despots.  Be  it  ours  to  stand  for  Liberty  and 
Justice,  nor  fear  to  lock  arms  with  those  who> 
are  called  hotheads  and  demagogues,"  The 
luminous  fringes  of  romance  attaching  to  those 
abstractions,  "Liberty  and  Justice,"  as  a  resalt 
of  the  American  and  French  revolutions,,  were 
still  in  the  air.  Dana  wrote  friendly  explanations 
of  just  what  the  Frenchman,  Proudhon^  ineant 
by  his  thesis,  "Property  is  Robbery."  Thoreartr 
was  writing  an  essay,  "On  the  Duty  of  Civil 
Disobedience."  John  Brown  was  stealing  horses>, 
running  slaves  by  the  underground  railroad  from 
slave  to  free  soil,  stocking  arsenals,  praying  ©¥er- 
strange,  new  projects.  These  all  have  their  sig 
nificance  in  showing  the  tint  of  the  time  spirit^ 
Brook  Farm,  and  its  Utopian  socialist  outlooks,, 
Fourier  and  his  phalanxes  of  workmen,  the  1S4& 
revolutions,  these  were  hot  topics  of  the  time.  The 
VII 


jfar-reaching  tides  and  backwashes  of  thought 
and  emotion  resulting  from  the  French  and 
American  revolutions,  and  all  that  weave  of  cir 
cumstance  touching  the  secession  rights  of 
states  of  the  Union  with  its  ramifications  into 
chattel  slavery,  besides  the  swirl  of  events  riding 
into  that  epic  upheaval,  the  sectional  war — these 
things,  tangibles  and  intangibles,  were  in  the  air 
and  the  breath  of  men  in  the  years  when  Walt 
Whitman  was  bringing  his  book  to  focus,  getting 
ready  to  launch  "Leaves  of  Grass." 

The  poem  of  Whitman's  most  often  published 
in  public  school  readers  is  "Captain,  My  Cap 
tain."  His  best  single  characteristic  and  authen 
tic  poem  is  "The  Song  of  the  Open  Road,"  earlier 
published  under  the  title,  "The  Public  Road,"  and 
still  earlier  as  the  "Poem  of  the  Road." 

Probably  the  most  majestic  threnody  to  death 
in  the  English  language  is  the  long  piece,  written 
just  after  the  assassination  of  President  Lin 
coln,  entitled,  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard 
Bloomed."  Some  readers  consider  "Passage  to 
India"  the  poem  of  profoundest  meanings  and 
vision. 

Among  lovers  of  Whitman  the  one  line  that 
probably  haunts  most  often  is  "Out  of  the 
Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking."  The  epithet  most 
frequently  quoted  in  political  controversy  is  "the 
never-ending  audacity  of  elected  persons."  Of 
hostile  criticism  the  mos*  vivid  line  is,  "He 
brought  the  slop-pail  into  the  parlor,"  a  com 
mentary  antedating  modern  plumbing.  The 
most  poignantly  human  note  struck  in  any  one 
line  is  that  in  the  poem  "To  a  Common  Prosti 
tute,"  where  he  declares,  "Not  till  the  sun  ex 
cludes  you  do  I  exclude  you."  As  "intriguing" 
as  any  title  is  "A  Woman  Waits  for  Me." 

The  1856  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  con 
tained  titles  of  poems  changed  in  later  editions. 
What  is  now  "A  Song  for  Occupations"  was 

vm 


then  the  "Poem  of  the  Daily  Work  of  the  Work 
men  and  Workwomen  of  These  States."  These 
were  other  titles  in  the  first  edition:  "Poem  of 
Wonder  at  the  Resurrection  of  the  Wheat," 
"Poem  of  You,  Whoever  You  Are,"  "Poem  of  the 
Heart  of  the  Son  of  Manhattan  Island,"  "Poem 
of  the  Last  Explanation  of  Prudence,"  "Poem  of 
Remembrances  for  a  Girl  or  a  Boy  of  These 
States,"  "Poem  of  the  Child  That  Went  Forth 
and  Always  Goes  Forth,  Forever  and  Forever," 
"Poem  of  the  Propositions  of  Nakedness," 
"Poem  of  the  Sayers  of  the  Words  of  the  Earth," 
"Poem  of  the  Dead  Young  Men  of  Europe,  the 
72d  and  73d  Years  of  These  States."  The  long 
est  title  is  "Liberty  Poem  for  Asia,  Africa, 
Europe,  America,  Australia,  Cuba,  and  the  Archi 
pelagoes  of  the  Sea,"  later  changed  to  the  title, 
"To  a  Foil'd  European  Revolutionaire." 

Among  the  writings  in  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
there  are  poems  which  are  masterpieces  of  the 
art  of  poetry.  Not  only  are  they  to  be  noted  as 
masterpieces  of  American  literature ;  they  are 
also  of  a  piece  with  massive  achievements  of 
other  countries ;  they  call  up  comparison  with 
the  sublime  chants,  outcries,  queries  and  assur 
ances  found  in  other  literature  outside  of 
America. 

"Song  of  Myself,"  which  in  the  earliest  edi 
tions  was  titled,  "Poem  of  Walt  Whitman,  An 
American,"  is  a  specimen  of  the  massive  master 
piece.  "I  do  not  ask  who  you  are,  that  is  not 
important  to  me,"  he  declares  in  one  line,  and, 
"I  wear  my  hat  as  I  please  indoors  and  out,"  in 
another  line.  Such  lines  are  easily  understood 
even  by  those  who  question  whether  it  should 
classify  as  poetry.  "What  is  a  man  anyhow? 
What  am  I?  What  are  you?"  or  "I  do  not  call  one 
greater  and  one  smaller,"  or  "These  are  really 
the  thoughts  of  all  men  in  all  ages,  they  are  not 
original  with  me,"  or  "I  launch  all  men  and 

IX 


women  forward  with  me  into  the  Unknown," 
these  are  further  instances  of  the  understand 
able. 

It  is  among  the  inarticulates  of  the  primitive, 
the  abysmal,  on  the  borders  where  time,  mystic 
dimensions,  and  the  sphinxes  of  Nowhere  ask 
their  riddles,  it  is  in  this  territory  that  Walt 
Whitman  gives  some  people  a  grand  everlasting 
•thrill,  while  still  other  people  get  only  a  headache 
and  a  revulsion.  "Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phan 
toms  behind  me,  Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first 
Nothing,  I  know  I  was  even  there,"  he  murmurs 
in  "Song  of  Myself,"  "Long  I  was  hugg'd  close — 
long  and  long." 

"Toss,  sparkles  of  day  and  dusk — toss  on  the 
black  stems  that  decay  in  the  muck,  toss  to  the 
moaning  gibberish  of  the  dry  limbs,"  is  a  speci 
men  of  this  borderland  reporting.  Or,  "A  child 
said,  What  is  the  grass?  fetching  it  to  me  with 
full  hands;  How  could  I  answer  the  child?  I 
do  not  know  what  it  is  any  more  than  he  ... 
I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the  Lord." 

Throughout  "Leaves  of  Grass"  there  recurs 
often  a  wild  soft  laughter  carrying  the  hint  that 
it  is  impossible  for  a  poet  to  tell  you  anything 
worth  knowing  unless  you  already  know  it  and  no 
song  can  be  sung  to  you  that  will  seem  a  song 
deeply  worth  hearing  unless  you  have  already  in 
some  strange,  far-off  fashion  heard  that  song. 
An  instance  of  this  wild  soft  laughter  is  in  the 
closing  lines  of  "Song  of  Myself,"  where  it  is 
written : 


The  spotted  hawk  swoops  by  and  accuses  me,  he  com 
plains  of  my  gab  and  my  loitering. 

I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed,  I  too  am  untranslatable. 
I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 

X 


The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me, 

It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest  and  true  as  any  on 

the  shadow'd  wilds, 
It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapor  and  the  dusk. 

I  depart  as  air,  I  shake  my  white  locks  at  the  runaway 

run, 
I  effuse  my  flesh  in  eddies,  and  drift  it  in  lacy  jags. 

I  bequeath  myself  to  the  dirt  to  grow  from  the  grass 

I  love, 

If  you  want  me  again  look  for   me  under  your  boot- 
soles. 

You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am  or  what  I  mean. 
But  I  shall  be  good  health  to  you  nevertheless, 
And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood. 

Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first  keep  encouraged, 
Missing  me  one  place  search  another, 
I  stop  somewhere  waiting  or  you. 

What  he  is  trying  to  sing  is  a  theme  fluid,  flow 
ing,  elusive,  and  so  he  goes  out  of  his  way  to 
flip  in  the  face  those  who  are  too  sure  they  are 
flying  the  same  wild  sea-winds  with  him.  "Even 
while  you  should  think  you  had  unquestionably 
caught  me,  already,  behold !  you  see  I  have 
escaped  you,"  he  writes. 

He  is  at  a  funeral  looking  into  a  coffin.  A  gir! 
stands  on  her  toes  and  joins  him  looking  in  on 
the  white  face  in  the  black  box.  "You  don't  un 
derstand  this,  do  you,  my  child?"  he  asks.  "No," 
she  answers.  "Neither  do  I,"  is  his  muttered 
and  kindly  rejoinder. 

The  anecdote  fits  Whitman  as  feathers  a  duck. 
From  such  a  poet  might  be  expected  the  line, 
"I  charge  you  forever  reject  those  who  would 
expound  me." 


XI 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 
INSCRIPTIONS- 

One's-Self    I    Sing  ...... 

As  I  Ponder'd  in  Silence  .... 

In  Cabin'd  Ships   at  Sea 

To  Foreign   Lands          ..... 

To  a  Historian     ...... 

To  Thee  Old  Cause 

Eidolons 

For  Him  I  Sing    ...... 

When  I  Read  the  Book  .... 

Beginning  M,y  Studies  ..... 

Beginners    ....... 

To  the  States        .  ... 

On  Journeys  through  the  States        .  .  . 

To  a  Certain  Cantatrice  .... 

Me  Imperturbe  .  .... 

Savantism  ...... 

The  Ship  Starting  .  ... 

"*  I  Hear  America  Singing  .  .  . 

What   Place   is   Besieged?       .... 

Still  though  the  One  I  Sing  .... 

Shut   not   Your    Doors 

Poets    to    Come  .  .  .  . 

To   You  :  

Thou  Reader         ...... 

Starting    from     Paumanok          .... 

Song  of  Myself  ...... 

CHILDREN  OF  ADAM- 

To   the   Garden    the  World      .... 

From    Pent-up   Aching   Rivers 

I  Sing   the   Body   Electric        .... 

A   Woman    Waits    for   Me 

Spontaneous    Me  ..... 

One  Hour  to  Madness  and  Joy 

Out  of  the  Rolling  Ocean  the  Crowd 

Ages   and    Ages    returning   at   Intervals     . 

We  Two,   How   long   We   were    Fool'd 

0  Hymen!    O    Hymenee!        . 

1  am  He  that  Aches  with  Love 

Native   Moments  ..... 

Once  I   Pass'd  through   a   Populous   City 

I  Heard  You,  Solemn -Sweet  Pipes  of  the  Organ 

Facing  West  from  California's  Shores 

As  Adam  Early  in  the  Morning 

CALAMUS— 

v.In    Paths    Untrodden 

Scented   Herbage   of  My   Breast 

Whoever    You    are    Holding    Me    Now    in    Hand 

XIII 


XIV 


Leaves  of  Grass 


CALAMUS— continued 

For  You,   O   Democracy 

These   I   Singing   in   Spring     . 

Not  Heaving  from  my  Ribb'd  Breast  Only 

Of  the  Terrible  Doubt  of  Appearances 

The    Base   of   All   Metaphysics 

Recorders    Ages     Hence 

When  I  Heard  at  the  Close  of  the  Day     .' 

Are    You    the    New   Person    Drawn    toward   Me 

Roots    and   Leaves   Themselves   Alone 

Not  Heat  Flames  up  and  Consumes 

Trickle    Drops       ..... 

City     of    Orgies 

Behold  this  Swarthy  Face 

I  Saw    in   Louisiana    a    Live-Oak    Growing 

To  a  Stranger       .... 

This    Moment    Yearning    and    Thoughtful 

I  Hear  it   was   Charged  against   Me 

The   Prairie- Grass   Dividing     . 

When  I  Peruse  the  Conquer'd  Fame 

We    Two     Boys     together     Clinging 

A   Promise   to    California 

Here   the    Frailest    Leaves   of   Me     . 

No    Labour-saving   Machine    . 

A  Glimpse  ..... 

A  Leaf  for  Hand  in  Hand 

Earth,   My    Likeness       .... 

I   Dream'd    in    a    Dream 

What  Think  You  I  Take  My  Pen  in  Hand? 

To  the  East  and  to  the  West 

Sometimes    with    One    I    Love 

To  a  Western  Boy          .... 

Fast-Anchor'd   Eternal   O  Love! 

Among   the    Multitude 

O  You   whom   I  Often   and   Silently   Come 

That   Shadow   My  Likeness 

Full    of    Life    now 
Salut  au  Monde!     . 
Song    of    the    Open    Road 
Crossing   Brooklyn    Ferry 
Song  of  the  Answerer 
Our  Old   Feuillage 
A  Song  of  Joys 
Song  of  the  Broad-Axe 
Song  of  the  Exposition 
Song  of   the   Redwood-Tree 
A  Song  for  Occupations 
A  Song  of  the  Rolling  Earth 
Youth,  Day,  Old  Age,  and  Night 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE- 
Song    of    the    Universal 
Pioneers!    O    Pioneers! 
To   You       . 

France— the   18th  Year  of  These  States 
Myself    and    Mine 
Year  of  Meteors    (1859-60) 
With   Antecedents 
A   Broadway    Pageant 


Contents 


xv 


SEA- DRIFT— 

Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking 

As  I  Ebb'd  with  the  Ocean  of  Life 

Tears  « 

To   the   Man-of-War    Bird 

Aboard  at   a   Ship's   Helm 

On   the  Beach   at   Night 

The    World    Below    the    Brine 

On  the  Beach  at  Night  Alone 

Song  for   All    Seas,   All   Ships 

Patrolling   Barnegat 

After  the  Sea-Ship 


212 

21? 
221 
222 
222 
223 
224 
224 
225 
226 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE— 

A  Boston  Ballad— 1854    ...  • 

Europe— the  72nd  and  73rd  Years  of  These  States 
-  A    Hand-Mirror 
Gods 
Germs 
Thoughts    . 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astron  mer 
Perfections 

0  Me!  O  Life! 
To    a    President 

1  Sit  and  Look  Out 
To    Rich    Givers 

The  Dalliance  of  the  Eagles 

Roaming    in    Thought    . 

A  Farm  Picture  . 

A  Child's   Maze   . 

The    Runner  .  • 

Beautiful    Women 

Mother  and  Babe 

Thought      . 

Visor'd 

Thought 

Gliding  o'er  All   . 

Hast  Never  Come  to  Thee  an  Hour 

Thought       . 

To  Old  Age 

Locations  and  Times     . 

T<?thenStates-To 'identify  the  16th,  17th  or  18th  Presidentiads 


230 
231 
232 
232 
233 
233 
233 
234 
234 
234 
235 
235 
235 
236 
236 
236 
236 
236 
237 
237 
237 
237 
237 
237 
238 
238 
238 
238 


Bird 


DRUM -TAPS 

First,   O    Songs,    for    a    Prelude 

Eighteen    Sixty-One 

Beat!    Beat!    Drums!     . 

From   Paumanok   Starting   I    Hy    like 

Song   of   the   Banner    at    Daybreak 

Rise,  O  Days,  from  Your  Fathomless  Deeps 

Virginia— the    West       . 

City  of  Ships         . 

The  Centenarian's   Story 

Cavalry    Crossing    a    Ford        . 

Bivouac   on    a    Mountain    Side 

An  Army  Corps  on  the  M'arch 

By    the   Bivouac's    Fitful    Flame 


239 
241 

242 
242 
243 
249 
251 
251 
252 
256 
257 
257 
257 


XVI 


Leaves  of  Grass 


DRUM-TAPS-continued 

Come  Up  from  the  Fields,  Father  . 

Vigil  Strange  I  Kept  on  the  Field  One  Night 

A  March   in  the  Ranks   Hard-Prest,  and  the  Road   Unkuo\ 

A  Sight  in  Camp  in  the  Daybreak  Grey  and  Dim 

As    Toilsome    I    Wander'd    Virginia's    Woods     . 

Not   the    Pilot 

Year  that  Trembled  and  Reel'd  Beneath  Me 

The   Wound-Dresser 

Long,    too  Long,   America 

Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun 

Dirge    for    Two    Veterans 


Over   the    Carnage    Rose    Prophetic 


I  Saw  Old   General    at    Bay 

The  Artilleryman's  Vision 

Ethiopia   Saluting   the   Colours 

Not  Youth  Pertains  to  Me 

Race    of    Veterans 

World,   Take  Good  Notice       . 

O   Tan- Faced    Prairie-Boy 

Look    Down,    Fair    Moon 

Reconciliation        .  .  . 

How  Solemn  as  One  by  One 

As  I  lay  with  My  Head  in  Your  Lap,  Camerado 

Delicate    Cluster 

To  &  Certain  Civilian   . 

Lo,  Victress  on  the  Peaks 

Spirit  Whose  Work  is  Done  . 

Adieu    to   a    Soldier 

Turn,   O   Libertad 

To  the  Leaven'd  Soil  They  Trod 

MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN- 

hen  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd 
Caotain!   My  Captain! 
Hush'd   be    the   Camps   Today 
This   Dust   was   Once   the   Man 
By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  . 
Reversals       .... 


a  Voice 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES     . 


305 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

INSCRIPTIONS 

ONE'S-SELF  I   SING 

ONE'S-SELF  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person, 

Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-Massc. 

Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing, 

Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  for  the 

Muse, 

I  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far, 
The  Female  equally  with  the  Male  I  sing. 

Of  Life  immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 
Cheerful,  for  freest  action  form'd  under  the  laws  divine, 
The  Modern  Man  I  sing. 

AS  I  PONDER'D  IN  SILENCE 

As  I  ponder'd  in  silence, 

Returning  upon  my  poems,  considering,  lingering  long, 

A  Phantom  arose  before  me  with  distrustful  aspect, 

Terrible  in  beauty,  age,  and  power, 

The  genius  of  poets  of  old  lands, 

As  to  me  directing  like  flame  its  eyes, 

With    finger    pointing    to    many    immortal    songs, 

Aad  menacing  voice,  What  singest  thouf  it  said, 

KnovSst  thou  not  there  is  but  one  theme  for  ever-enduring 

bards? 

And  that  is  the  theme  of  War,  the  fortune  of  battles, 
The  making  of  perfect  soldiers. 

Be  it  so,  then  I  answer'd, 

/  too  haughty  Shade  also  sing  war,  and  a  longer  and  greater 
one  than  any, 


2  Leaves  of  Grass 

Waged  in  my  book  with  varying  fortune,  with  flight, 
advance  and  retreat,  victory  deferr'd  and  wavering, 

(Yet  methinks  certain,  or  as  good  as  certain,  at  the  last), 
the  field  the  world, 

For  life  and  death,  for  the  Body  and  for  the  eternal  Soul, 

Lf),  I  too  am  come,  chanting  the  chant  of  battles, 

I  above  all  promote  brave  soldiers. 

IN  CABIN'D  SHIPS  AT  SEA 

IN  cabin'd  ships  at  sea, 

The  boundless  blue  on  every  side  expanding, 

With  whistling  winds  and  music  of  the  waves,  the  large 

imperious  waves, 
Or  some  lone  bark  buoy'd  on  the  dense  marine, 

Where  joyous,  full  of  faith,  spreading  white  sails, 

She  cleaves  the  ether  mid  the  sparkle  and  the   foam  of 

day,  or  under  many  a  star  at  night, 
By  sailors  young  and  old  haply  will  I,  a  reminiscence  of 

the   land,  be   read, 
In  full  rapport  at  last. 

Here  are  our  thoughts,  voyagers'  thoughts, 

Here  not  the  land,  firm  land,  alone  appears,  may  then  by 

them  be  said, 
The  sky  o'erarches  here,  we  feel  the  undulating  deck  beneath 

our  feet, 

We  feel  the  long  pulsation,  ebb  and  flow  of  endless  motion, 
The  tones  of  unseen  mystery,  the  vague  and  vast  suggestions 

of  the  briny  world,  the  liquid-flowing  syllables, 
The  perfume,  the  faint  creaking  of  the  cordage,  the  melancholy 

rhythm, 

The  boundless  vista  and  the  horizon  far  and  dim  are  all  here, 
And  this  is  ocean's  Poem. 

Then  falter  not,  O  book,  fulfil  your  destiny, 

You  not  a  reminiscence  of  the  land  alone, 

You  too  as  a  lone  bark  cleaving  the  ether,  purpos'd  I  know 

not  whither,  yet  ever  full  of   faith, 
Consort  to  every  ship  that  sails,  sail  you ! 
Bear  forth  to  them  folded  my  love  (dear  marines,  for  you  I 

fold  it  here  in  every  leaf)  ; 
Speed  on  my  book!  spread  your  white  sails,  my  little  bark, 

athwart  the  imperious  waves, 


Inscriptions  3 

Chant  on,  sail  on,  bear  o'er  the  boundless  blue  from  me  to 

every  sea, 
This  song  for  mariners  and  all  their  ships. 

TO  FOREIGN  LANDS 

I  HEARD  that  you  ask'd  for  something  to  prove  this  puzzle  the 

New  World, 

And  to  define  America,  her  athletic  Democracy, 
Therefore  I  send  you  my  poems  that  you  behold  in  them  what 

you  wanted. 

TO  A  HISTORIAN 

You  who  celebrate  bygones, 

Who  have  explored  the  outward,  the  surfaces  of  the  races, 
the  life  that  has  exhibited  itself, 

Who  have  treated  of  man  as  the  creature  of  politics,  aggre 
gates,  rulers,  and  priests, 

I,  habitan  of  the  Alleghanies,  treating  of  him  as  he  is  in 
himself  in  his  own  rights, 

Pressing  the  pulse  of  the  life  that  has  seldom  exhibited  itself 
(the  great  pride  of  man  in  himself), 

Chanter  of  Personality,  outlining  what  is  yet  to  be, 

I   project  the  history  of  the   future. 

TO  THEE,  OLD  CAUSE 

To  thee,  old  cause! 
Thou  peerless,  passionate,  good  cause, 
Thou  stern,  remorseless,  sweet  idea, 
Deathless  throughout  the  ages,  races,  lands, 
After  a  strange  sad  war,  great  war  for  thee, 

(I  think  all  war  through  time  was  really  fought,  and  ever  will 

be  really  fought,  for  thee), 
These  chants  for  thee,  the  eternal  march  of  thee. 

(A  war,  O  soldiers,  not  for  itself  alone, 

Far,  far  more  stood  silently  waiting  behind,  now  to  advance 

in   this  book.) 
Thou    orb    of    many    orb's ! 
Thou   seething  principle!   thou  well-kept,   latent  germ!   thou 

centre  i 


4  Leaves  of  Grass 

Around  the  idea  of  thee  the  war  revolving, 

With  all  its  angry  and  vehement  play  of  causes, 

(With  vast  results  to  come  for  thrice  a  thousand  years), 

These  recitatives  for  thee— my  book  and  the  war  are  one, 

Merged  in  its  spirit  I  and  mine,  as  the  contest  hinged  on  thee,  ' 

As  a  wheel  on  its  axis  turns,  this  book  unwitting  to  itself, 

Around  the  idea  of  thee. 


EIDOLONS 

I  MET  a  seer, 

Passing  the  hues  and  objects  of  the  world, 
The  fields  of  art  and  learning,  pleasure,  sense, 

To  glean  eidolons. 

Put  in  thy  chants,  said  he, 

No  more  the  puzzling  hour  nor  day,  nor  segments,  parts,  put  in, 
Put  first  before  the  rest  as  light  for  all  and  entrance-song  of  all, 

That  of  eidolons. 

Ever  the  dim  beginning, 
Ever  the  growth,  the  rounding  of  the  circle, 
Ever  the  summit  and  the  merge  at  last  (to  surely  start  again), 

Eidolons!  eidolons! 

Ever   the  mutable, 

Ever  materials,  changing,  crumbling,  re-cohering, 
Ever  the  ateliers,  the  factories  divine, 

Issuing    eid61ons. 

Lo,  I  or  you, 

Or  woman,  man,  or  state,  known  and  unknown, 
We  seeming  solid  wealth,  strength,  beauty  build, 

But  really  build  eidolons. 

The  ostent  evanescent, 

The  substance  of  an  artist's  mood  or  savan's  studies  long, 
Or  warrior's,  martyr's,   hero's  toils, 

To  fashion  his  eidolon. 

Of  every  human   life, 
(The  units  gather'd,  posted,  not  a  thought,  emotion,  deed,  left 

out), 
The  whole  or  large  or  small  summ'd,  added  up, 

In  its  eidolon. 


Inscriptions  5 

The  old,   old   urge, 

Based  on  the  ancient  pinnacles,  lo,  newer,  higher  pinnacles, 
From  science  and  the  modern  still  impell'd, 

The  old,  old  urge,  eidolons. 

The    present    now    and    here, 
America's  busy,  teeming,  intricate  whirl, 
Of  aggregate  and  segregate  for  only  thence  releasing, 

To-day's   eidolons. 

These  with  the  past, 

Of  vanish'd  lands,  of  all  the  reigns  of  kings  across  the  sea. 
Old   conquerors,    old   campaigns,    old    sailors'   voyages, 

Joining  eidolons. 

Densities,  growth,  facades, 
Strata  of  mountains,  soils,   rocks,  giant  trees, 
Far-born,  far-dying,  living  long,  to  leave, 

Eid61ons  everlasting. 

Exalte,  rapt,  ecstatic, 
The  visible  but  their  womb  of  birth, 
Of  orbic  tendencies  to  shape  and  shape  and  shape, 

The  mighty  earth-eidolon. 

All  space,  all  time, 

(The  stars,  the  terrible  perturbations  of  the  suns, 
Swelling,  collapsing,  ending,  serving  their  longer,  shorter  use), 

Fill'd  with  eidolons  only. 

The  noiseless  myriads, 

The  infinite  oceans  where  the  rivers  empty, 
The  separate  countless  free  identities,  like  eyesight, 

The  true  realities,  eidolons. 

Not  this  the  world, 

Nor  these  the  universes,  they  the  universes, 
Purport  and  end,  ever  the  permanent  life  of  life, 

Eidolons,  eidolons. 

Beyond  thy  lectures  learn'd  professor, 

Beyond  thy  telescope  or  spectroscope,  observer  keen;  beyond 
all  mathematics, 


6  Leaves  of  Grass 

Beyond   the  doctor's    surgery,   anatomy,   beyond   the   chemist 

with   his   chemistry, 
The  entities  of  entities,  eidolons. 


Unfix'd  yet  fix'd, 

Ever  shall  be,  ever  have  been  and  are, 
Sweeping  the  present  to  the  infinite   future, 

Eidolons,  eidolons,    eidolons. 


The  prophet  and  the  bard, 

Shall  yet  maintain  themselves,  in  higher  stages  yet, 
Shall  mediate  to  the  Modern,  to  Democracy,  interpret  yet  to 
them, 

God  and  eidolons. 


And  thee,  my  soul, 
Joys,  ceaseless  exercises,  exaltations, 
Thy  yearning  amply   fed   at  last,  prepared  to  meet, 

Thy  mates,  eidolons. 

Thy  body  permanent, 
The  body  lurking  there  within  thy  body, 
The  only  purport  of  the  form  thou  art,  the  real  I  myself, 

An  image,  an  eidolon. 

Thy  very  songs  not  in  thy  songs, 
No  special  strains  to  sing,  none  for  itself, 
But  from  the  whole  resulting,  rising  at  last  and  floating, 

A  round   full-orb'd  eidolon. 


FOR  HIM  I  SING 

FOR  him  I  sing, 

I  raise  the  present  on  the  past, 

(As  some  perennial  tree  out  of  its  roots,  the  present  on  the 

past), 

With  time  and  space  I  him  dilate  and  fuse  the  immortal  laws, 
To  make  himself  by  them  the  law  unto  himself. 


Inscriptions 


WHEN  I  READ  THE  BOOK 

WHEN  I  read  the  book,  the  biography  famous, 

And  is  this  then   (said  I)    what  the  author  calls  a  man's 

life? 
And  so  will  some  one  when  I  am  dead  and  gone  write 

my  life? 

(As  if  any  man  really  knew  aught  of  my  life, 
Why  even  I  myself  I  often  think  know  little  or  nothing 

of  my  real  life, 
Only    a    few    hints,    a    few    diffused    faint    clews    and 

indirections 
I  seek  for  my  own  use  to  trace  out  here.) 

BEGINNING  MY  STUDIES 

BEGINNING  my  studies  the  first  step  pleas'd  me  so  much, 
The  mere  fact  consciousness,  these  forms,   the  power  of 

motion, 

The  least  insect  or  animal,  the   senses,  eyesight,  love, 
The  first  step  I  say  awed  me  and  pleas'd  me  so  much, 
I  have  hardly  gone  and  hardly  wish'd  to  go  any  farther. 
But  stop  and  loiter  all  the  time  to  sing  it  in  ecstatic  songs. 

BEGINNERS 

How   they  are  provided   for   upon   the  earth    (appearing 

at  intervals), 

How  dear  and  dreadful  they  are  to  the  earth, 
How  they  inure  to  themselves  as  much  as  to  any — what  a 

paradox  appears  their  age, 

How  people  respond  to  them,  yet  know  them   not, 
How  there  is  something  relentless  in  their  fate  all  times, 
How  all  times  mischoose  the   objects   of   their   adulation 

and  reward, 
And  how  the  same  inexorable  price  must  still  be  paid  for 

the  same  great  purchase. 

TO  THE  STATES 

To  the   States  or  any  one  of  them,   or  any  city  of  the 

States 
Resist  much,  obey  little, 


8  Leaves  of  Grass 

Once   unquestioning  obedience,  once    fully   enslaved, 
Once  fully  enslaved,   no  nation,  state,  city  of  this  earth, 
ever  afterward  resumes  its  liberty. 

ON  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  THE  STATES 

ON  journeys  through  the  States  we  start, 

(Ay  through  the  world,  urged  by  these  songs, 

Sailing  henceforth  to  every  land,  to  every  sea), 

We  willing  learners  of  all,  teachers  of  all,  and  lovers  of  all. 

We    have   watch'd    the    seasons    dispensing    themselves    and 

passing  on, 
And  have  said,  Why  should  not  a  man  or  woman  do  as  much 

as  the  seasons,  and  effuse  as  much? 

We  dwell  a  while  in  every  city  and  town, 

We  pass  through  Kanada,  the  North-east,  the  vast  valley  ot 
the  Mississippi,  and  the  Southern  States, 

We  confer  on  equal  terms  with  each  of  the  States, 

We  make  trial  of  ourselves  and  invite  men  and  women  to  hear, 

We  say  to  ourselves,  Remember,  fear  not,  be  candid,  promulge 
the  body  and  the  soul, 

Dwell  a  while  and  pass  on,  be  copious,  temperate,  chaste,  mag 
netic, 

And  what  you  effuse  may  then  return  as  the  seasons  return, 

And  may  be  just  as  much  as  the  seasons. 

TO  A  CERTAIN  CANTATRJCE 

HERE,  take  this  gift, 

I  was  reserving  it   for  some  hero,  speaker,  or  general, 

One  who  should  serve  the  good  old  cause,  the  great  idea,  the 

progress  and  freedom  of  the  race, 
Some  brave  confronter  of  despots,  some  daring  rebel; 
But  I  see  that  what  I  was  reserving  belongs  to  you  just  as 

much  as  to  any. 

ME  IMPERTURBE 

ME  imperturb'e,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, 

Master  of  all  or  mistress  of  all,  aplomb  in  the  midst  of  irra* 

tional  things, 
Imbued  as  they,  passive,   receptive,   silent  as   they, 


Inscriptions  9 

Finding  my  occupation,  poverty,  notoriety,  foibles,  crimes, 
less  important  than  I  thought, 

Me  toward  the  Mexican  sea,  or  in  the  Mannahatta  or  the 
Tennessee,  or  far  north  or  inland, 

A  river  man,  or  a  man  of  the  woods  or  of  any  farm-life  of 
these  States  or^of  the  coast,  or  the  lakes  or  Kanada, 

Me  wherever  my  life  is  lived,  O  to  be  self-balanced  for  con 
tingencies, 

ITo  confront  night,  storms,  hunger,  ridicule,  accidents,  rebuffs, 
as  the  trees  and  animals  do. 


SAVANTISM 

THITHER  as  I  look  I  see  each  result  and  glory  retracing  itself 
and  nestling  close,  always  obligated, 

Thither  hours,  months,  years— thither  trades,  compacts,  estab 
lishments,  even  the  most  minute, 

Thither  every-day  life*  speech,  utensils,  politics,  persons,  estates  ; 

Thither  we  also,  I  with  my  leaves  and  songs,  trustful, 
admirant, 

rVs  a  father  to  his  father  going  takes  his  children  along  with  him. 


THE  SHIP  STARTING 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea, 

On  its  breast  a  ship  starting,  spreading  all  sails,  carrying  even 

her  moonsails, 
The  pennant  is  flying  aloft  as  she  speeds  she  speeds  so  stately — 

below  emulous  waves  press  forward, 
They  surround  the  ship  with  shining,  curving  motions  and  foam. 

I   HEAR   AMERICA   SINGING 

I  HEAR  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear, 

Those  of  mechanics,  each  one  singing  his  as  it  should  be  blithe 

and  strong, 

The  carpenter  singing  his  as  he  measures  his  plank  or  beam, 
The  mason  singing  his  as  he  makes  ready  for  work,  or  leaves 

off  work, 
The  boatman  singing  what  belongs  to  him  in  his  boat,  the 

deckhand   singing  on  the   steamboat   deck, 
The  shoemaker  singing  as  he  sits  on  his  bench,  the  hatter  sing 
ing  as  he  stands, 


no  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  wood-cutter's  song,  the  ploughboy's  on  his  way  in  the 
morning,  or  at  noon  intermission  or  at  sundown, 

The  delicious  singing  of  the  mother,  or  of  the  young  wife  at 
work,  or  of  the  girl  sewing  or  washing, 

Each  singing  what  belongs  to  him  or  her  and  to  none  else, 

The  day  what  belongs  to  the  day— at  night  the  party  of  young 
fellows,  robust,  friendly, 

Singing  with  open  mouths  their  strong  melodious  songs. 

WHAT  PLACE  IS  BESIEGED? 

WHAT  place  is  besieged,  and  vainly  tries  to  raise  the  siege? 
Lo,  I  send  to  that  place  a  commander,  swift,  brave,  immortal, 
And  with  him  horse  and  foot,  and  parks  of  artillery, 
And  artillery-men,  the  deadliest  that  ever  fired  gun. 

STILL  THOUGH   THE   ONE   I   SING 

STILL  though  the  one  I  sing, 

(One,  yet  of  contradictions  made),  I  dedicate  to  Nationality, 
I   leave  in   him   revolt    (O   latent   right   of    insurrection !    O 
quenchless,  indispensable  fire!) 

SHUT  NOT  YOUR  DOORS 

SHUT  not  your  doors  to  me,  proud  libraries, 

For  that  which  was  lacking  on  all  your  well-fill'd  shelves,  yet 

needed  most,  I  bring, 

Forth  from  the  war  emerging,  a  book  I  have  made, 
The  words  of  my  book  nothing,  the  drift  of  it  everything, 
A  book  separate,  not  link'd  with  the  rest  nor  felt  by  the  intellect, 
But  you  ye  untold  latencies  will  thrill  to  every  page. 

POETS  TO  COME 

POETS  to  come !  orators,  singers,  musicians  to  come ! 

Not  to-day  is  to  justify  me  and  answer  what  I  am  for, 

But  you,  a  new   brood,   native,   athletic,   continental,   greater 

than  before  known, 
Arouse!  for  you  must  justify  me. 

I  myself  but  write  one  or  two  indicative  words  for  the  future, 
I  but  advance  a  moment  only  to  wheel  and  hurry  back  in  the 

darkness. 


Starting  From  Paumanok  13 

See  revolving  the  globe, 

The  ancestor-continents  away  group'd  together, 
The  present  and  future  continents  north  and  south,  with  the 
isthmus  between. 

See,  vast  trackless  spaces, 
As  in  a  dream  they  change,  they  swiftly  fill, 
Countless   masses   debouch  upon   them, 

They  are  now  cover'd  with  the  foremost  people,  arts,  insti 
tutions,  known. 

See,  projected  through  time, 

For  me  an  audience  interminable. 

With  firm  and  regular  step  they  wend,  they  never  stop, 
Successions  of  men,  Americanos,  a  hundred  millions, 
One  generation  playing  its  part  and  passing  on, 
Another  generation  playing  its  part  and  passing  on  in  its  turnc 
With  faces  turn'd  sideways  or  backward  towards  me  to  listen, 
With  eyes  retrospective  towards  me. 


Americanos!  conquerors!  marches  humanitarian! 
Foremost !  century  marches  !  Libertad !  masses ! 
For  you  a  programme  of  chants. 

Chants  of  the  prairies, 

Chants  of  the  long-running  Mississippi,  and  down  to  the 
Mexican  sea, 

Chants  of  Ohio,  Indiana,  Illinois,  Iowa,  Wisconsin,  and  Min 
nesota, 

Chants  going  forth  from  the  centre  from  Kansas,  and  thence 
equi-distant, 

Shooting  in  pulses  of  fire  ceaseless  to  vivify  all. 


Take  my  leaves  America,  take  them  South  and  take  them  North, 
Make  welcome  for  them  everywhere,  for  they  are  your  own 

off-spring, 

Surround  them  East  and  West,  for  they  would  surround  you, 
And  you   precedents,  connect   lovingly   with   them,    for   they 

connect  lovingly  with  you. 


14  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  conn'd  old  times, 

I  sat  studying  at  the  feet  of  the  great  masters, 
Now  if  eligible  O  that  the  great  masters  might  return  and 
study  me. 

In  the  name  of  these  States  shall  I  scorn  the  antique? 
Why  these  are  the  children  of  the  antique  to  justify  it. 


Dead  poets,  philqsophs,  priests, 

Martyrs,  artists,  inventors,  governments  long  since, 

Language-shapers  on  other  shores, 

Nations  once  powerful,  now  reduced,  withdrawn,  or  desolate, 

I  dare  not  proceed  till  I  respectfully  credit  what  you  have 

left  wafted  hither, 

I  have  perused  it,  own  it  is  admirable  (moving  awhile  among  it), 
Think  nothing  can  ever  be  greater,  nothing  can  ever  deserve 

more  than  it  deserves, 

Regarding  it  all  intently  a  long  while,  then  dismissing  it, 
I  stand  in  my  place  with  my  own  day  here. 

Here  lands  female  and  male, 

Here  the  heir-ship  and  heiress-ship   of  the  world,  here  the 

flame  of  materials, 

Here  spirituality  the  translatress,  the  openly-avow'd, 
The  ever-tending,  the  finale  of  visible  forms, 
The  satisfier,  after  due  long-waiting  now  advancing, 
Yes,  here  comes  my  mistress  the  soul. 

6 

The  soul, 

Forever  and  forever — longer  than  soil  is  brown  and  solid — 
longer  than  water  ebbs  and  flows. 

I  will  make  the  poems  of  materials,  for  I  think  they  are  to  be 

the  most  spiritual  poems, 

And  I  will  make  the  poems  of  my  body  and  of  mortality, 
For  I  tfcink  I  shall  then  supply  myself  with  the  poems  of  mj 

soul  and  of  immortality. 

I  will  make  a  song  for  these  States  that  no  one  State  may 
under  any  circumstances  be  subjected  to  another  State, 


Starting  From  Paumanok  15 

And  I  will  make  a  song  that  there  shall  be  comity  by  day  and  by 
night  between  all  the  States,  and  between  any  two  of  them, 

And  I  will  make  a  song  for  the  ears  of  the  President,  full  of 
weapons  with  menacing  points, 

And  behind  the  weapons  countless  dissatisfied  faces; 

And  a  song  make  I  out  of  the  One  form'd  out  of  all, 

The  fang'd  and  glittering  One  whose  head  is  over  all, 

Resolute  warlike  One  including  and  over  all, 

(However  high  the  head  of  any  else  that  head  is  over  all). 

I  will  acknowledge  contemporary  lands, 

I  will  trail  the  whole  geography  of  the  globe  and  salute  courte 
ously  every  city  large  and  small, 

And  employments!  I  will  put  in  my  poems  that  with  you  is 
heroism  upon  land  and  sea, 

And  I  will  report  all  heroism  from  an  American  point  of  view. 

I  will  sing  the  song  of  companionship, 

I  will  show  what  alone  must  finally  compact  these, 

I  believe  these  are  to  found  their  own  ideal  of  manly  love, 

indicating  it  in  me, 
I  will  therefore  let  flame  from  me  the  burning  fires  that  were 

threatening  to  consume  me, 

I  will  lift  what  has  too  long  kept  down  those  smouldering  fires, 
I  will  give  them  complete  abandonment, 
I  will  write  the  evangel-poem  of  comrades  and  of  love, 
For  who  but  I  should  understand  love  with  all  its  sorrow  and 

joy? 
And  who  but  I  should  be  the  poet  of  comrades? 

7 

I  am  the  credulous  man  of  qualities,  ages,  races, 
I  advance  from  the  people  in  their  own  spirit, 
Here  is  what  sings  unrestricted  faith. 

Omnes!  omnes !  let  others  ignore  what  they  may, 

I  make  the  poem  of  evil  also,  I  commemorate  that  part  also, 

I  am  myself  just  as  much  evil  as  good,  and  my  nation  is — 

and  I  say  there  is  in  fact  no  evil, 
(Or  if  there  is  I  say  it  is  just  as  important  to  you,  to  the  land 

or  to  me,  as  any  thing  else). 

I  too,  following  many  and  follow'd  by  many,  inaugurate  a 
religion,  I  descend  into  the  arena, 


16  Leaves  of  Grass 

(It  may  lie  I  am  destin'd  to  utter  the  loudest  cries  there,  the 

winner's  pealing  shouts, 
Who  knows?   they  may  rise   from  me  yet,  and   soar  above 

everything) . 

Each  is  not  for  its  own  sake, 

I  say  the  whole  earth  and  all  the  stars  in  the  sky  are  for 
religion's  sake. 

I  say  no  man  has  ever  yet  been  half  devout  enough, 
None  has  ever  yet  adored  or  worship'd  half  enough, 
None  has  begun  to  think  how  divine  he  himself  is,  and  how 
certain  the  future  is. 

I  say  that  the  real  and  permanent  grandeur  of  these  States 

must  be  their  religion, 

Otherwise  there  is  no  real  and  permanent  grandeur; 
(Nor  character  nor  life  worthy  the  name  without  religion, 
Nor  land  nor  man  or  woman  without  religion). 


8 

What  are  you  doing  young  man  ? 

Are  you  so  earnest,  so  given  up  to  literature,  science,  art, 

amours  ? 

These  ostensible  realities,  politics,  points? 
Your  ambition  or  business  whatever  it  may  be? 

It  is  well — against  such  I  say  not  a  word,  I  am  their  poet  also, 
But  behold !  such  swiftly  subside,  burnt  up  for  religion's  sake, 
For  not  all  matter  is  fuel  to  heat,  impalpable  flame,  the 

essential  life  of  the  earth, 
Any  more  than  such  are  to  religion. 


What  do  you  seek  so  pensive  and  silent? 
What  do  you  need  camerado? 
Dear  son  do  you  think  it  is  love? 

Listen,  dear  son — listen  America,  daughter  or  son, 
It  is  a  painful  thing  to  love  a  man  or  woman  to  excess,  and  yet 
it  satisfies,  it  is  great, 


Starting  From  Paumanok  17 

But  there  is  something  else  very  great,  it  makes  the  whole 

coincide, 
It,    magnificent,    beyond    materials,    with    continuous    hands 

sweeps  and  provides  for  all. 


10 

Know  you,  solely  to  drop  in  the  earth  the  germs  of  a  greater 

religion, 
The  following  chants  each  for  its  kind  I  sing. 

My  comrade! 

For  you  to  share  with  me  two  greatnesses,  and  a  third  one 

rising  inclusive  and  more  resplendent, 
The  greatness  of  Love  and  Democracy,  and  the  greatness  of 

Religion. 

Melange  mine  own,  the  unseen  and  the  seen, 

Mysterious  ocean  where  the  streams  empty, 

Prophetic  spirit  of  materials  shifting  and  flickering  around  me, 

Living  beings,  identities  now  doubtless  near  us  in  the  air  that 

we  know  not  of, 

Contact  daily  and  hourly  that  will  not  release  me, 
These  selecting,  these  in  hints  demanded  of  me. 

Not  he  with  a  daily  kiss  onward  from  childhood  kissing  me. 
Has  winded  and  twisted  around  me  that  which  holds  me  to  him, 
Any  more  than  I  am  held  to  the  heavens  and  all  the  spiritual 

world, 
After  what  they  have  done  to  me,  suggesting  themes. 

0  such  themes — equalities!  O  divine  average! 

Warblings  under  the  sun,  unsher'd,  as  now,  or  at  noon,  or 

setting, 
Strains  musical  flowing  through  ages,  now  reaching  hither, 

1  take  to  your  reckless  and  composite  chords,  add  to  them, 

and  cheerfully  pass  them   forward. 


11 

As  I  have  walk'd  in  Alabama  my  morning  walk, 
I  have  seen  where  the  she-bird  the  mocking-bird  set  on  her 
nest  in  the  briers  hatching  her  brood. 


1 8  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  have  seen  the  he-bird  also, 

I  have  paus'd  to  hear  him  near  at  hand  inflating  his  throat 

and  joyfully   singing. 
And  while  I  paus'd  it  came  to  me  that  what  he  really  sang 

for  was  not  there  only, 
Nor  for  his  mate  nor  himself  only,  nor  all  sent  back  by  the 

echoes, 

But  subtle,  clandestine,  away  beyond, 
A  charge  transmitted  and  gift  occult  for  those  being  born. 

12 

Democracy!  near  at  hand  to  you  a  throat  is  now  inflating 
itself  and  joyfully  singing. 

Ma  femme!  for  the  brood  beyond  us  and  of  us, 

For  those  who  belong  here  and  those  to  come, 

I  exultant  to  be  ready  for  them  will  now  shake  out  carols 

stronger  and   haughtier  than  have  ever  yet  been   heard 

upon  earth. 

I  will  make  the  songs  of  passion  to  give  them  their  way, 
And   your    songs   outlaw'd   offenders,    for    I    scan   you   with 
kindred  eyes,  and  carry  you  with  me  the  same  as  any. 

I  will  make  the  true  poem  of  riches, 

To  earn   for  the  body  and  the  mind  whatever  adheres  and 

goes  forward  and  is  not  dropt  by  death ; 
I  will  effuse  egotism  and  show  it  underlying  all,  and  I  will  be 

the  bard  of  personality, 
And  I  will  show  of  male  and  female  that  either  is  but  the 

equal  of  the  other, 
And  sexual  organs  and  acts!  do  you  concentrate  in  me,  for  I 

am  determin'd  to  tell  you  with  courageous  clear  voice  to 

prove  you  illustrious, 
And  I  will  show  that  there  is  no  imperfection  in  the  present, 

and  can  be  none  in  the  future, 
And  I  will  show  that  whatever  happens  to  anybody  it  may  be 

ttirn'd  to  beautiful  results, 
And  I  will  show  that  nothing  can  happen  more  beautiful  than 

death, 
And  I  will  thread  a  thread  through  my  poems  that  time  and 

events  are  compact, 
And  that  all  the  things  of  the  universe  are  perfect  miracles, 

each  as  profound  as  any. 


Starting  From  Paumanok  19 

I  will  not  make  poems  with  reference  to  parts, 

But  I  will  make  poems,  songs,  thoughts,   with   reference  to 

ensemble, 
And  I  will  not  sing  with  reference  to  a  day,  but  with  reference 

to  all  days, 
And  I  will  not  make  a  poem  nor  the  least  part  of  a  poem  but 

has  reference  to  the  soul. 
Because  having  look'd  at  the  objects  of  the  universe,  I  find 

there  is  no  one  nor  any  particle  of  one  but  has  reference 

to  the  soul. 


13 

Was  somebody  asking  to  see  the  soul? 
See,  your  own  shape  and  countenance,  persons,  substances, 
beasts,  the  trees,  the  running  rivers,  the  rocks,  and  sands. 

All  hold  spiritual  joys  and  afterwards  loosen  them; 
How  can  the  real  body  ever  die  and  be  buried? 

Of  your  real  body  and  any  man's  or  woman's  real  body, 
Item  for  item  it  will  elude  the  hands  of  the  corpse-cleaners 

and  pass  to  fitting  spheres, 
Carrying  what  has  accrued  to  it  from  the  moment  of  birth  to 

the  moment  of  death. 

Not  the  types  set  up  by  the  printer  return  their  impression, 
the  meaning,  the  main  concern, 

Any  more  than  a  man's  substance  and  life  or  a  woman's  sub 
stance  and  life  return  in  the  body  and  the  soul, 

Indifferently  before  death  and  after  death. 

Behold,  the  body  includes  and  is  the  meaning,  the  main  concern* 

and  includes  and  is  the  soul ; 
Whoever  you  are,  how  superb  and  how  divine  is  your  body, 

or  any  part  of  itl 

14 

Whoever  you  are,  to  you  endless  announcements  1 

Daughter  of  the  lands  did  you  wait  for  your  poet? 

Did  you  wait  for  one  with  a  flowing  mouth  and  indicative  hand  ? 


2O  Leaves  of  Grass 

Toward  the  male  of  the  States,  and  toward  the  female  of  the 

States, 

Exulting  words,  words  to  Democracy's  lands. 
Interlink'd,  f ood-yielding  lands  ! 
Land  of  coal  and  iron!  land  of  gold!  land  of  cotton,  sugar, 

rice! 
Land  of  wheat,  beef,  pork!  land  of  wool  and  hemp!  land  of 

the  apple  and  the  grape ! 
Land  of  the  pastoral  plains,  the  grass-fields  of   the  world! 

land  of  those  sweet-air'd   interminable  plateaus ! 
Land  of  the  herd,  the  garden,  the  healthy  house  of  adobie ! 
Lands  where  the  north-west  Columbia  winds,  and  where  the 

south-west  Colorado  winds ! 

Land  of  the  eastern  Chesapeake!  land  of  the  Delaware! 
Land  of  Ontario,  Erie,  Huron,  Michigan! 
Land   of   the   Old   Thirteen!     Massachusetts   land!     land   of 

Vermont  and  Connecticut! 

Land  of  the  ocean  shores!  land  of  sierras  and  peaks! 
Land  of  boatmen  and  sailors!  fisherman's  land! 
Inextricable  lands!  the  clutch'd  together!  the  passionate  ones ! 
The  side  by  side!  the  elder  and  younger  brothers!  the  bony- 

limb'd ! 
The  great  woman's  land !  the  feminine !  the  experienced  sisters 

and  the  inexperienced  sisters! 
Far    breath'd    land!    Arctic    braced!    Mexican    breez'd  1    the 

diverse !  the  compact ! 
The  Pennsylvanian !  the  Virginian !  the  double  Carolinian ! 

0  all  and  each  well-loved  by  me !  my  intrepid  nations !  O  I  at 

any  rate  include  you  all  with  perfect  love ! 

1  cannot  be  discharged  from  you !  not  from  one  any  sooner 

than  another! 
O  death!  O  for  all  that,  I  am  yet  of  you  unseen  this  hour 

with  irrepressible  love, 

Walking  New  England,  a  friend,  a  traveller, 
Splashing  my  bare  feet  in  the  edge  of  the  summer  ripples  on 

Paumanok's  sands, 
Crossing  the  prairies,  dwelling  again  in  Chicago,  dwelling  in 

every  town, 

Observing  shows,  births,  improvements,  structures,  arts, 
Listening  to  orators  and  oratresses  in  public  halls, 
Of   and   through   the   States   as   during   life,   each   man   and 

woman  my  neighbour, 
The  Louisianian,  the  Georgian,  as  near  to  me,  and  I  as  near  to 

him  and  her, 


Starting  From  Paumanok  21 

The  Mississippian  and  Arkansian  yet  with  me,  and  I  yet  with 

any  of  them, 
Yet  upon  the  plains  west  of  the  spinal  river,  yet  in  my  house 

of  adobie, 

Yet  returning  eastward,  yet  in  the  Seaside  State  or  in  Maryland, 
Yet  Kanadian  cheerily  braving  the  winter,  the  snow  and  ice 

welcome  to  me, 
Yet  a  true  son  either  of  Maine  or  of  the  Granite  State,  or  the 

Narragansett  Bay   State,  or  the  Empire   State, 
Yet  sailing  to  other  shores  to  annex  the  same,  yet  welcoming 

every  new  brother, 
Hereby  applying  these  leaves  to  the  new  ones  from  the  hour 

they  unite  with  the  old  ones, 
Coming  among  the  new  ones  myself  to  be  their  companion 

and  equal,  coming  personally  to  you  now, 
Enjoining  you  to  acts,  characters,  spectacles,  with  me. 

15 

With  me  with  firm  holding,  yet  haste,  haste  on. 

For  your  life  adhere  to  me, 

(I  may  have  to  be  persuaded  many  times  before  I  consent  to 

give  myself  really  to  you,  but  what  of  that? 
Must  not   Nature  be  persuaded  many  times?) 

No  dainty  dolce  affettuoso  I, 

Bearded,  sun-burnt,  grey-neck'd,  forbidding,  I  have  arrived, 

To  be  wrestled  with  as  I  pass   for  the   solid  prizes  of  the 

Universe, 
For  such  I  afford  whoever  can  persevere  to  win  them. 

16 

On  my  way  a  moment  I  pause, 

Here  for  you!  and  here  for  America! 

Still  the  present  I  raise  aloft,  still  the  future  of  the  States  I 

harbinge  glad  and  sublime, 
And  for  the  past  I  pronounce  what  the  air  holds  of  the  red 

aborigines. 

The  red  aborigines, 

Leaving  natural  breaths,  sounds  of  rain  and  winds,  calls  as  of 
birds  and  animals  in  the  woods,  syllabled  to  us  for  names, 


22  Leaves  of  Grass 

Okonee,  Koosa,  Ottawa,  Monongahela,  Sauk,  Natchez,  Chatta- 

hoochee,  Kaqueta,  Oronoco, 

Wabash,  Miami,  Saginaw,  Chippewa,  Oshkosh,  Walla-Walla, 
Leaving  such  to  the  States  they  melt,  they  depart,  charging 

the  water  and  the  land  with  names. 

17 

Expanding  and  swift,  henceforth, 

Elements,  breeds,  adjustments,  turbulent,  quick,  and  audacious. 
A  world  primal  again,  vistas  of  glory  incessant  and  branching. 
A  new  race  dominating  previous  ones  and  grander  far,  with 

new  contests, 
New  politics,  new  literatures  and  religions,  new  inventions  and 

arts. 

These,  my  voice  announcing — I  will  sleep  no  more  but  arise. 
You  oceans  that  have  been  calm  within  me !  how  I  feel  you. 

fathomless,  stirring,  preparing  unprecedented  waves  and 

storms. 

18 

See,  steamers  steaming  through  my  poems, 

See,  in  my  poems  immigrants  continually  coming  and  landing, 

See,  in  arriere,  the  wigwam,  the  trail,  the  hunter's  hut,  the 
flat-boat,  the  maize-leaf,  the  claim,  the  rude  fen~e,  and 
the  backwoods  village, 

See,  on  the  one  side  the  Western  Sea  and  on  the  other  the 
Eastern  Sea,  how  they  advance  and  retreat  upon  my  poems 
as  upon  their  own  shores, 

See,  pastures  and  forests  in  my  poems — see,  animals  wild  and 
tame — see,  beyond  the  Kaw,  countless  herds  of  buffalo 
feeding  on  short  curly  grass, 

See,  in  my  poems,  cities,  solid,  vast,  inland,  with  paved  streets, 
with  iron  and  stone  edifices,  ceaseless  vehicles,  and  com 
merce. 

See,  the  many-cylinder'd  steam  printing-press — see,  the  electric 
telegraph  stretching  across  the  continent, 

See,  through  Atlantica's  depths  pulses  American  Europe  reach 
ing,  pulses  of  Europe  duly  return'd, 

See,  the  strong  and  quick  locomotive  as  it  departs,  panting, 
blowing  the  steam-whistle, 

See,  ploughmen  ploughing  farms — see,  miners  digging  mines — 
see,  the  numberless  factories, 


Starting  From  Paumanok  23 

See,  mechanics   busy  at  their  benches  with  tools — see   from 

among    them    superior    judges,    philosophs,     Presidents, 

emerge,  drest  in  working  dresses, 
See  lounging  through  the  shops  and  fields,  of  the  States,  me 

well-belov'd,  close-held  by  day  and  night, 
Hear  the  loud  echoes  of  my  songs  there — read  the  hints  come 

at  last. 

19 

O  camerado  close  1  O  you  and  me  at  last,  and  us  two  only. 

O  a  word  to  clear  one's  path  ahead  endlessly  1 

O  something  ecstatic  and  undemonstrable !  O  music  wild! 

O  now  I  triumph — and  you  shall  also; 

O  hand  in  hand — O  wholesome  pleasure — O  one  more  desirer 

and  lover ! 
O  to  haste  firm  holding — to  haste,  haste  on  with  m*. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF 


I  CELEBRATE  myself,  and  sing  myself, 

And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 

For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 

I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul, 

I  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease  observing  a  spear  of  summer  grass. 

My  tongue,  every  atom  of  my  blood,  f orm'd  from  this  soil,  this 

air, 
Born  here  of  parents  born  here  from  parents  the  same,  and 

their  parents  the  same, 

I,  now  thirty-seven  years  old  in  perfect  health  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance, 

Retiring  back  a  while  sufficed  at  what  they  are,  but  never 

forgotten, 

I  harbour  for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to  speak  at  every  hazard, 
Nature  without  check  with  original  energy. 


Houses  and   rooms  are   full  of   perfumes,   the   shelves   are 

crowded  with  perfumes, 

I  breathe  the  fragrance  myself  and  know  it  and  like  it, 
The  distillation  would  intoxicate  me  also,  but  I  shall  not  let  it. 

The  atmosphere  is   not  a  perfume,   it  has  no   taste  of  the 

distillation,  it  is  odourless, 

It  is  for  my  mouth  forever,  I  am  in  love  with  it, 
I  will  go  to  the  bank  by  the  wood  and  become  undisguised 

and  naked, 
I  am  mad  for  it  to  be  in  contact  with  me. 

24 


Song  of  Myself  25 

The  smoke  of  my  own  breath, 

Echoes,  ripples,  buzz'd  whispers,  love-root,  silk-thread,  crotch, 

and  vine, 
My  respiration  and  inspiration,  the  beating  of  my  heart,  the 

passing  of  blood  and  air  through  my  lungs, 
The  sniff  of  green  leaves  and  dry  leaves,  and  of  the  shore  and 

dark-colour'd  sea-rocks,  and  of  hay  in  the  barn, 
The  sound  of  the  belch'd  words  of  my  voice  loos'd  to  the 

eddies  of  the  wind, 

A  few  light  kisses,  a  few  embraces,  a  reaching  around  of  arms, 
The  play  of  shine  and  shade  on  the  trees  as  the  supple  boughs 

wag, 
The  delight  alone  or  in  the  rush  or  the  streets,  or  along  the 

fields  and  hill-sides, 
The  feeling  of  health,  the  full-moon  trill,  the  song  of  me  rising 

from  bed  and  meeting  the  sun. 

Have  you  reckon'd  a  thousand  acres  much  ?  have  you  reckoned 

the  earth  much? 

Have  you  practis'd  so  long  to  learn  to  read? 
Have  you  felt  so  proud  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  poems? 

Stop  this  day  and  night  with  me  and  you  shall  possess  the 

origin  of  all  poems, 
You  shall  possess  the  good  of  the  earth  and  sun   (there  are 

millions  of  suns  left), 
You  shall  no  longer  take  things  at  second  or  third  hand,  nor 

look  through  the  eyes  of  the  dead,  nor  feed  on  the  spectres 

in  books, 
You  shall  not  look  through  my  eyes  either,  nor  take  things 

from  me, 
You  shall  listen  to  all  sides  and  filter  them  from  yourself. 


I  have  heard  what  the  talkers  were  talking,  the  talk  of  the 

beginning  and  the  end, 
But  I  do  not  talk  of  the  beginning  or  the  end. 

There  was  never  any  more  inception  than  there  is  now, 
Nor  any  more  youth  or  age  than  there  is  now, 
And  will  never  be  any  more  perfection  than  there  is  now, 
Nor  any  more  heaven  or  hell  than  there  is  now. 


26  Leaves  of  Grass 

Urge  and  urge  and  urge, 

Always  the  procreant  urge  of  the  world. 

Out  of  the  dimness  opposite  equals  advance,  always  substance 

and  increase,  always  sex, 
Always  a  knit  of  identity,  always  distinction,  always  a  breed 

of  life. 

To  elaborate  is  no  avail,  learn'd  and  unlearn'd  feel  that  it  is  so. 

Sure  as  the  most  certain  sure,  plumb  in  the  uprights,  well 

entretied,  braced  in  the  beams, 
Stout  as  a  horse,  affectionate,  haughty,  electrical, 
I  and  this  mystery  here  we  stand. 

Clear  and  sweet  is  my  soul,  and  clear  and  sweet  is  all  that  is 
not  my  soul. 

Lack  one  lacks  both,  and  the  unseen  is  proved  by  the  seen, 
Till  that  becomes  unseen  and  receives  proof  in  its  turn. 

Showing  the  best  and  dividing  it  from  the  worst  age  vexes  age, 

Knowing  the  perfect  fitness  and  equanimity  of  things,  while 

they  discuss  I  am  silent,  and  go  bathe  and  admire  myself. 

Welcome  is  every  organ  and  attribute  of  me,  and  of  any  man 

hearty  and  clean, 
Not  an  inch  nor  a  particle  of  an  inch  is  vile,  and  none  shall 

be  less  familiar  than  the  rest. 

I  am  satisfied — I  see,  dance,  laugh,  sing; 

As    the    hugging    and    loving    bed-fellow    sleeps    at    my    side 

through  the  night,  and  withdraws  at  the  peep  of  the  day 

with  stealthy  tread, 
Leaving  me   baskets   cover'd  with   white  towels   swelling  the 

house  with  their  plenty, 
Shall   I  postpone  my  acceptation  and  realisation  and  scream 

at  my  eyes, 

That  they  turn  from  gazing  after  and  down  the  road, 
And  forthwith  cipher  and  show  me  to  a  cent, 
Exactly  the  value  of  one  and  exactly  the  value  of  two,  and 

which  is  ahead? 


Song  of  Myself  27 

4 

Trippers  and  askers  surround  me, 

People  I  meet,  the  effect  upon  me  of  my  early  life  or  the 

ward  and  city  I  live  in,  or  the  nation, 
The  latest  dates,  discoveries,  inventions,  societies,  authors  old 

and  new, 

My  dinner,  dress,  associates,  looks,  compliments,  dues, 
The  real  or  fancied  indifference  of  some  man  or  woman  I  love, 
The  sickness  of  one  of  my  folks  or  of  myself,  or  ill-doing  or 

loss  or  lack  of  money,  or  depressions  of  exaltations, 
Battles,  the  horrors  of  fratricidal  war,  the  fever  of  doubtful 

news,  the  fitful  events ; 

These  come  to  me  days  and  nights  and  go  from  me  again, 
But  they  are  not  the  Me  myself. 

Apart  from  the  pulling  and  hauling  stands  what  I  am, 
Stands  amused,  complacent,  compassionating,  idle,  unitary, 
Looks   down,   is   erect,  or   bends   an  arm   on   an   impalpable 

certain  rest, 

Looking  with  side-curved  head  curious  what  will  come  next, 
Both  in  and  out  of  the  game  and  watching  and  wondering  at  it. 

Backward  I  see  in  my  own  days  where  I  sweated  through  fog 

with  linguists  and  contenders, 
I  have  no  mockings  or  arguments,  I  witness  and  wait. 


I  believe  in  you  my  soul,  the  other  I  am  must  not  abase  itself 

to  you, 
And  you  must  not  be  abased  to  the  other. 

Loafe  with  me  on  the  grass,  loose  the  stop  from  your  throat, 
Not  words,  not  music  or  rhyme  I  want,  not  custom  or  lecture, 

not  even  the  best, 
Only  the  lull  I  like,  the  hum  of  your  valved  voice. 

I  mind  how  once  we  lay  such  a  transparent  summer  morning, 
How  you  settled  your  head  athwart  my  hips  and  gently  turn'd 

over  upon  me, 
And  parted  the  shirt  from  my  bosom-bone,  and  plunged  your 

tongue  to  my  bare-stript  heart, 
And  reach'd  till  you  felt  my  beard,  and  reach'd  till  you  held 

my  feet 


28  Leaves  of  Grass 

Swiftly  rose  and  spread  around  me  the  peace  and  knowledge 

that  pass  all  the  argument  of  the  earth, 

And  I  know  that  the  hand  of  God  is  the  promise  of  my  own, 
And  I  know  that  the  spirit  of  God  i    the  brother  of  my  own, 
And  that  all  the  men  ever  born  are  also  my  brothers,  and  the 

women  my  sisters  and  lovers, 
And  that  a  kelson  of  the  creation  is  love, 
And  limitless  are  leaves  stiff  or  drooping  in  the  fields, 
And  brown  ants  in  the  little  wells  beneath  them, 
And  mossy   scabs  of  the  worm   fence,   heap'd   stones,   elder, 

mullein,  and  poke-weed. 


A  child  said,  What  is  the  grass?  fetching  it  to  me  with  full 

hands ; 
How  could  I  answer  the  child?     I  do  not  know  what  it  is  any 

more  than  he. 

I  guess  it  must  be  the  flag  of  my  disposition,  out  of  hopeful 
green  stuff  woven. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the  Lord, 
A  scented  gift  and  remembrancer  designedly  dropt, 
Bearing  the  owner's  name  someway  in  the  corners,  that  we 
may  see  and  remark,  and  say  Whose? 

Or  1  guess  the  grass  is  itself  a  child,  the  produced  babe  of 
the  vegetation. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  a  uniform  heiroglyphic, 

And  it  means,  Sprouting  alike  in  broad  zones  and  narrow  zones, 
Growing  among  black  folks  as  among  white, 
Kanuck,  Tuckahoe,  Congressman,  Cuff,  I  give  them  the  same, 
I  receive  them  the  same. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  the  beautiful  uncut  hair  of  graves. 

Tenderly  will  I  use  you  curling  grass, 
It  may  be  you  transpire  from  the  breasts  of  young  men, 
It  may  be  if  I  had  known  them  I  would  have  loved  them, 
It  may  be  you  are  from  old  people,  or  from  offspring  taken 

soon  out  of  their  mothers'  laps, 
And  here  you  are  the  mothers'  laps. 


Song  of  Myself  29 

This  grass  is  very  dark  to  be  from  the  white  heads  of  old 

mothers, 

Darker  than  the  colourless  beards  of  old  men, 
Dark  to  come  from  under  the  faint  red  roofs  of  mouths. 

0  I  perceive  after  all  so  many  uttering  tongues, 

And  I  perceive  they  do  not  come  from  the  roofs  of  mouths 
for  nothing. 

1  wish  I  could  translate  the  hints  about  the  dead  young  men 

and  women, 

And  the  hints  about  old  men  and  mothers,  and  the  offspring 
taken  soon  out  of  their  laps. 

What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young  and  old  men? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  women  and  c-hildren? 

They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere, 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death, 

And  if  ever  there  was  it  led  forward  life,  and  does  not  wait 

at  the  end  to  arrest  it, 
And  ceas'd  the  moment  life  appear'd. 

All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses, 
And  to   die   is   different   from   what  any   one   supposed,   and 
luckier. 


Has  any  one  supposed  it  lucky  to  be  born? 
I  hasten  to  inform  him  or  her  it  is  just  as  lucky  to  die,  and  I 
know  it. 

I  pass  death  with  the  dying  and  birth  with  the  new-wash'd 

babe,  and  am  not  contain'd  between  my  hat  and  boots, 
And  peruse  manifold  objects,  no  two  alike  and  every  one  good, 
The  earth  good  and  the  stars  good,  and  their  adjuncts  all  good 

I  am  not  an  earth  nor  an  adjunct  of  an  earth, 

I  am  the  mate  and  companion  of  people,  all  just  as  immortal 

and  fathomless  as  myself, 
(They  do  not  know  how  immortal,  but  I  know). 

Every  kind  for  itself  and  its  own,  for  me  mine  male  and  female, 
For  me  those  that  have  been  boys  and  that  love  women, 


jo  Leaves  of  Grass 

For  me  the  man  that  is  proud  and  feels  how  it  stings  to  be 

slighted, 
For  me  the  sweet-heart  and  the  old  maid,  for  me  mothers  and 

the  mothers  of  mothers, 

For  me  lips  that  have  smiled,  eyes  that  have  shed  tears, 
For  me  children  and  the  begetters  of  children. 

Undrape!  you  are  not  guilty  to  me,  nor  stale  nor  discarded, 
I  see  through  the  broadcloth  and  gingham  whether  or  no, 
And  am  around,  tenacious,  acquisitive,  tireless,  and  cannot  be 
shaken  away. 

8 

The  little  one  sleeps  in  its  cradle, 

I  lift  the  gauze  and  look  a  long  time,  and  silently  brush  away 
flies  with  my  hand. 

The  youngster  and  the  red-faced  girl  turn  aside  up  the  bushy 

hill, 
I  peeringly  view  them  from  the  top. 

The  suicide  sprawls  on  the  bloody  floor  of  the  bedroom, 
I  witness  the  corpse  with  its  dabbled  hair,  I  note  where  the 
pistol  has  fallen. 

The  blab  of  the  pave,  tires  of  carts,  sluff  of  boot-soles,  talk  of 

the  promenaders, 
The  heavy  omnibus,  the  driver  with  his  interrogating  thumb, 

the  clank  of  the  shod  horses  on  the  granite  floor, 
The  snow-sleighs,  clinking,  shouted  jokes,  pelts  of  snow-balls, 
The  hurrahs  for  popular  favourites,  the  fury  of  rous'd  mobs, 
The  flap  of  the  curtain'd  litter,  a  sick  man  inside  borne  to  the 

hospital, 

The  meeting  of  enemies,  the  sudden  oath,  the  blows  and  fall, 
The  excited  crowd,  the  policeman  with  his  star  quickly  working 

his  passage  to  the  centre  of  the  crowd, 
The  impassive  stones  that  receive  and  return  so  many  echoes, 
What  groans  of  over-fed  or  half-starv'd  who  fall  sunstruck 

or  in  fits, 
What  exclamations  of  women  taken  suddenly  who  hurry  home 

and  give  birth  to  babes, 
What  living  and  buried  speech  is  always  vibrating  here,  what 

howls  restrain 'd  by  decorum, 


Song  of  Myself  31 

Arrests  of  criminals,  slights,  adulterous  offers  made,  accept 
ances,  rejections  with  convex  lips, 

I  mind  them  or  the  show  or  resonance  of  them — I  come  and  I 
depart 


The  big  doors  of  the  country  barn  stand  open  and  ready, 
The  dried   grass   of   the  harvest-time  loads   the   slow-drawn 

wagon, 

The  clear  light  plays  on  the  brown  grey  and  green  intertinged, 
The  armfuls  are  pack'd  to  the  sagging  mow. 

I  am  there,  I  help,  I  came  stretch'd  atop  of  the  load, 

I  felt  its  soft  jolts,  one  leg  reclined  on  the  other, 

I  jump  from  the  cross-beams  and  seize  the  clover  and  timothy, 

And  roll  head  over  heels  and  tangle  my  hair  full  of  wisps. 

10 

Alone  far  in  the  wilds  and  mountains  I  hunt, 
Wandering  amazed  at  my  own  lightness  and  glee, 
In  the  late  afternoon  choosing  a  safe  spot  to  pass  the  night, 
Kindling  a  fire  and  broiling  the  fresh-kill'd  game, 
Falling  asleep  on  the  gather'd  leaves  with  my  dog  and  gun  by 
my  side. 

The  Yankee  clipper  is  under  her  sky-sails,  she  cuts  the  sparkle 

and  scud, 
My  eyes  settle  the  land,  I  bend  at  her  prow  or  shout  joyously 

from  the  deck. 

The  boatmen  and  clam-diggers  arose  early  and  stopt  for  me, 
I  tuck'd  my.  trowser-ends  in  my  boots  and  went  and  had  a 

good  time; 
You  should  have  been  with  us  that  day  round  the  chowder-i 

kettle. 

I  saw  the  marriage  of  the  trapper  in  the  open  air  in  the  far 

west,  the  bride  was  a  red  girl, 
Her  father  and  his  friends  sat  near  cross-legged  and  dumbly 

smoking,  they  had  moccasins  to  their  feet  and  large  thick 

blankets  hanging  from  their  shoulders, 
On  i*  hank  lounged  the  trapper,  he  was  drest  mostly  in  skins, 


32  Leaves  of  Grass 

his  luxuriant  beard  and  curls  protected  his  neck,  he  held 

his  bride  by  the  hand, 
She  had  long  eyelashes,  her  head  was  bare,  her  coarse  straight 

locks  descended  upon  her  voluptuous  limbs  and  reach'd  to 

her  feet. 

The  runaway  slave  came  to  my  house  and  stopt  outside, 
I  heard  his  motions  crackling  the  twigs  of  the  woodpile, 
Through  the  swung  half-door  of  the  kitchen  I  saw  him  limpsy 

and  weak, 
And  went  where  he  sat  on  a  log  and  led  him  in  and  assured 

him, 
And  brought  water  and  fill'd  a  tub  for  his  sweated  body  and 

bruis'd  feet, 
And  gave  him  a  room  that  enter'd  from  my  own,  and  gave 

him  some  coarse  clean  clothes, 
And  remembered  perfectly   well   his   revolving  eyes   and  his 

awkwardness, 
And  remember  putting  plasters  on  the  galls  of  his  neck  and 

ankles ; 
He  stayed  with  me  a  week  before  he  was   recuperated  and 

pass'd  north, 
I  had  him  sit  next  me  at  table,  my  fire-lock  lean'd  in  the  corner. 

11 

Twenty-eight  young  men  bathe  by  the  shore, 
Twenty-eight  young  men  and  all  so  friendly; 
Twenty-eignt  years  of  womanly  life  and  all  so  lonesome. 

She  owns  the  fine  house  by  the  rise  of  the  bank, 
She  hides  handsome  and  richly  drest  aft  the  blinds  of   the 
window. 


Which  of  the  young  men  does  she  like  the  best? 
Ah,  the  homeliest  of  them  is  beautiful  to  her. 

Where  are  you  off  to  lady,  for  I  see  you, 

You  splash  in  the  water  there,  yet  stay  stock  still  in  your  room. 

Dancing  and  laughing  along  the  beach  came  the  twenty-ninth 

bather, 
The  rest  did  not  see  her,  but  she  saw  them  and  loved  them. 


Song  of  Myself  33 

The  beards  of  the  young  men  glistened  with  wet,  it  ran  from 

their  long  hair, 
Little  streams  pass'd  all  over  their  bodies. 

An  unseen  hand  also  pass'd  over  their  bodies, 

It  descended  tremblingly  from  their  temples  and  ribs. 

The  young  men  float  on  their  backs,  their  white  bellies  bulge 

to  the  sun,  they  do  not  ask  who  seizes  fast  to  them, 
They  do  not  know  who  puffs  and  declines  with  pendant  and 

bending  arch, 
They  do  not  think  whom  they  souse  with  spray. 

12 

The  butcher-boy  puts  off  his  killing-clothes,  or  sharpens  his 

knife  at  the  stall  in  the;  market, 
I  loiter  enjoying  his  repartee  and  his  shuffle  and  break-down. 

Blacksmiths  with  grimed  and  hairy  chests  environ  the  anvil, 
Each  has  his  main-sledge,  they  are  all  out,  there  is  a  great  heat 
in  the  fire. 

From  the  cinder-strew'd  threshold  I  follow  their  movements, 
The  lithe  sheer  of  their  waists  plays  even  with  their  massive 

arms, 
Overhand  the  hammers  swing,  overhand  so  slow,  overhand  so 

sure, 
They  do  not  hasten,  each  man  hits  in  his  place. 

13 

The  negro  holds  firmly  the  reins  of  his  four  horses,  the  block 

swags  underneath  on  its  tied-over  chain, 
The  negro  that  drives  the  long  dray  of  the  stone-yard,  steady 

and  tall  he  stands  pois'd  on  one  leg  on  the  string-piece, 
His  blue  shirt  exposes  his  ample  neck  and  breast  and  loosens 

over  his  hip-band, 
His  glance  is  calm  and  commanding,  he  tosses  the  slouch  of 

his  hat  away  from  his  forehead, 
The  sun  falls  on  his  crispy  hair  and  moustache,  falls  on  the 

black  of  his  polish'd  and  perfect  limbs. 

I  behold  the  picturesque  giant  and  love  him,  and  I  do  not 

stop  there, 
I  go  with  the  team  also. 


34  Leaves  of  Grass 

In  me  the  caresser  of  life  wherever  moving,  backward  as  well 

as  forward  sluing, 
To  niches  aside  and  junior  bending,  not  a  person  or  object 

missing, 
Absorbing  all  to  myself  and  for  this  song. 

Oxen  that  rattle  the  yoke  and  chain  or  halt  in  the  leafy  shade, 

what  is   that  you   express   in  your  eyes? 
It  seems  to  me  more  than  all  the  print  I  have  read  in  my  life. 

My  tread  scares  the  wood-drake  and  wood-duck  on  my  distant 

and  day-long  ramble, 
They  rise  together,  they  slowly  circle  around. 

I  believe  in  those  wing'd  purposes, 

And  acknowledge  red,  yellow,  white,  playing  within  me, 
And  consider  green  and  violet  and  the  tufted  crown  intentional, 
And  do  not  call   the  tortoise  unworthy   because   she   is   not 

something  else, 
And  the  jay  in  the  woods  never  studied  the  gamut,  yet  trills 

pretty  well  to  me, 
And  the  look  of  the  bay  mare  shames  silliness  out  of  me. 

14 

The  wild  gander  leads  his  flock  through  the  cool  night, 
Ya-honk  he  says,  and  sounds  it  down  to  me  like  an  invitation, 
The  pert  may  suppose  it  meaningless,  but  I  listening  close, 
Find  its  purpose  and  place  up  there  toward  the  wintry  sky. 

The  sharp-hoof'd  moose  of  the  north,  the  cat  on  the  house-sill, 

the  chickadee,  the  prairie-dog, 

The  litter  of  the  grunting  sow  as  they  tug  at  her  teats, 
The  brood  of  the  turkey-hen  and  she  with  her  half-spread 

wings, 
\  see  in  them  and  myself  the  same  old  law. 

The  press  of  my  foot  to  the  earth  springs  a  hundred  affections, 
They  scorn  the  best  I  can  do  to  relate  them. 

I  am  enamour'd  of  growing  out-doors, 

Of  men  that  live  among  cattle  or  taste  of  the  ocean  or  woods, 

Of  the  builders  and  steerers  of  ships  and  the  wielders  of  axes 

and  mauls,  and  the  drivers  of  horses, 
I  can  eat  and  sleep  with  them  week  in  and  week  out. 


Song  of  Myself  35 

What  is  commonest,  cheapest,  nearest,  easiest,  is  Me, 
Me  going  in  for  my  chances,  spending  for  vast  returns, 
Adorning   myself    to    bestow   myself    on    the    first    that    will 

take  me, 

Not  asking  the  sky  to  come  down  to  my  good  will, 
Scattering  it  freely  forever. 

15 

The  pure  contralto  sings  in  the  organ  loft, 

The  carpenter  dresses  his  plank,  the  tongue  of  his  foreplane 

whistles  its  wild  ascending  lisp, 
The    married    and    unmarried    children    ride    home    to    their 

Thanksgiving   dinner, 

The  pilot  seizes  the  king-pin,  he  heaves  down  with  a  strong  arm, 
The  mate  stands  braced  in  the  whale-boat,  lance  and  harpoon 

are  ready, 

The  duck-shooter  walks  by  silent  and  cautious  stretches, 
The  deacons  are  ordain'd  with  cross'd  hands  at  the  altar, 
The  spinning-girl  retreats  and  advances  to  the  hum  of  the  big 

wheel, 
The  farmer  stops  by  the  bars  as  he  walks  on  a  First-day  loafe 

and  looks  at  the  oats  and  rye, 

The  lunatic  is  carried  at  last  to  the  asylum  a  confirm'd  case, 
(He  will  never  sleep  any  more  as  he  did  in  the  cot  in  his 

mother's  bedroom)  ; 
The  jour  printer  with  grey  head  and  gaunt  jaws  works  at  his 

case, 
He  turns  his  quid  of  tobacco  while  his  eyes  blurr  with  the 

manuscript ; 

The  malform'd  limbs  are  tied  to  the  surgeon's  table, 
What  is  removed  drops  horribly  in  a  pail ; 
The  quadroon  girl  is  sold  at  the  auction-stand,  the  drunkard 

nods  by  the  bar-room  stove, 
The  machinist  rolls  up  his  sleeves,  the  policeman  travels  his 

beat,  the  gate-keeper  marks  who  pass, 
The  young    fellow    drives    the   express-wagon    (I   love  him, 

though  I  do  not  know  him)  ; 

The  half-breed  straps  on  his  light  boots  to  compete  in  the  race, 
The  western  turkey-shooting  draws  old  and  young,  some  lean 

on  their  rifles,  some  sit  on  logs, 
Out  from  the  crowd  steps  the  marksman,  takes  his  position, 

levels  his  piece ; 
The  groups  of  newly-come  immigrants  cover  the  wharf  or  levee, 


36  Leaves  of  Grass 

As  the  woolly-pates  hoe  in  the  sugar-field,  the  overseer  views 

them  from  his  saddle, 
The  bugle  calls  in  the  ball-room,  the  gentlemen  run  for  their 

partners,  the  dancers  bow  to  each  other, 
The  youth  lies  awake  in  the  cedar-roof'd  garret  and  harks  to 

the  musical  rain, 
The  Wolverine  sets   traps   on   the  creek  that   helps   fill   the 

Huron, 

The  squaw  wrapt  in  her  yellow-hemm'd  cloth  is  offering  moc 
casins  and  bead-bags  for  sale, 
The  connoisseur  peers  along  the  exhibition-gallery  with  half- 

shut  eyes  bent  sideways, 
As  the  deck-hands  make  fast  the  steamboat  the  plank  is  thrown 

for  the  shore-going  passengers, 
The  young  sister  holds  out  the  skein  while  the  elder  sister 

winds  it  off  in  a  ball,  and  stops  now  and  then  for  the  knots, 
The  one-year  wife  is  recovering  and  happy  having  a  week  ago 

borne  her  first  child, 
The  clean-hair'd  Yankee  girl  works  with  her  sewing-machine 

or  in  the  factory  or  mill, 

The   paving-man   leans   on   his   two-handed   rammer,   the    re 
porter's   lead  flies   swiftly  over   the  note-book,   the   sign- 
painter  is  lettering  with  blue  and  gold, 
The  canal  boy  trots  on  the  tow-path,  the  book-keeper  counts  at 

his  desk,  the  shoemaker  waxes  his  thread. 
The  conductor  beats  time  for  the  band  and  all  the  performers 

follow  him, 

The  child  is  baptized,  the  convert  is  making  his  first  professions, 
The  regatta  is  spread  on  the  bay,  the  race  is  begun  (how  the 

white  sails  sparkle!) 
The  drover  watching  his  drove  sings  out  to  them  that  would 

stray, 
The  pedlar  sweats  with  his  pack  on  his  back   (the  purchaser 

haggling  about  the  odd  cent)  ; 
The  bride  unrumples  her  white  dress,  the  minute-hand  of  the 

clock  moves  slowly, 
The    opium-eater    declines    with    rigid   head    and    just-open'd 

lips, 
The  prostitute  draggles  her  shawl,  her  bonnet  bobs  on  her  tipsy 

and  pimpled  neck, 
The  crowd  laugh  at  her  blackguard  oaths,  the  men  jeer  and 

wink  to  each  other, 
(Miserable!  I  do  not  laugh  at  your  oaths  nor  jeer  you)  ; 


Song  of  Myself  37 

The  President  holding  a  cabinet  concil  is  surrounded  by  the 

great  Secretaries, 
On  the  piazza  walk  three  matrons  stately  and  friendly  with 

twined  arms, 
The  crew  of  the  fish-smack  pack  repeated  layers  of  halibut  in 

the  hold, 
The  Missourian  crosses  the  plains  toting  his  wares  and  his 

cattle. 
As  the  fare-collector  goes  through  the  train  he  gives  notice  by 

the  jingling  of  loose  change, 
The  floor-men  are  laying  the  floor,  the  tinners  are  tinning    the 

roof,  the  masons  are  calling  for  mortar, 

In  single  file  each  shouldering  his  hod  pass  onward  the  labourers ; 
Seasons    pursuing    each    other    the    indescribable    crowd    is 

gather 'd,  it  is  the  fourth  of  the   Seventh-month    (what 

salutes  of  cannon  and  small  arms)  I 
Seasons  pursuing  each  other  the  plougher  ploughs,  the  mower 

mows,  and  the  winter-grain  falls  in  the  ground; 
Off  on  the  lakes  the  pike-fisher  watches  and  waits  by  the  hole 

in  the  frozen  surface, 
The  stumps  stand  thick  round  the  clearing,  the  squatter  strikes 

deep  with  his  axe, 
Flatboatmen  make  fast  towards  dusk  near  the  cotton-wood  or 

pecan-trees, 
Coon-seekers   go   through   the    regions   of   the   Red   river  or 

through  those  drain'd  by  the  Tennessee,  or  through  those 

of  the  Arkansas, 
Torches  shine  in  the  dark  that  hangs  on  the  Chattahooche  or 

Altamahaw, 

Patriarchs  sit  at  supper  with  sons  and  grandsons  and  great- 
grandsons  around  them, 
In  walls  of  adobie,  in  canvas  tents,  rest  hunters  and  trappers 

after  their  day's  sport, 
The  city  sleeps  and  the  country  sleeps, 

The  living  sleep  for  their  time,  the  dead  sleep  for  their  time, 
The  old  husband  sleeps  by  his  wife  and  the  young  husband 

sleeps  by  his  wife ; 

And  these  tend  inward  to  me,  and  I  tend  outward  to  them, 
And  such  as  it  is  to  be  of  these  more  or  less  I  am, 
And  of  these  one  and  all  I  weave  the  song  of  myself. 

16 

I  am  of  old  and  young,  of  the  foolish  as  much  as  the  wise, 
Regardless  of  others,  ever  regardful  of  others, 


38  Leaves  of  Grass 

Maternal  as  well  as  paternal,  a  child  as  well  as  a  man, 
Stuff d  with  the  stuff  that  is  coarse  and  stuff' d  with  the  stuff 

that  is  fine, 
One  of  the  Nation  of  many  nations,  the  smallest  the  same  and 

the  largest  the  same, 
A  Southerner  soon  as  a  Northerner,  a  planter  nonchalant  and 

hospitable  down  by  the  Oconee  I  live, 
A  Yankee  bound  my  own  way  ready  for  trade,  my  joints  the 

limberest  joints  on  earth  and  the  sternest  joints  on  earth, 
A  Kentuckian  walking  the  vale  of  the  Elkhorn  in  my  deer 
skin  leggings,  a  Louisianian  or  Georgian, 
A  boatman  over  lakes  or  bays  or  along  coasts,  a  Hoosier, 

Badger,  Buckeye; 
At  home  on  Kanadian  snow-shoes  or  up  in  the  bush,  or  with 

fisherman  off  Newfoundland, 
At  home  in  the  fleet  of  ice-boats,  sailing  with  the  rest  and 

tacking, 
At  home  on  the  hills  of  Vermont  or  in  the  woods  of  Maine,  or 

in  the  Texan  ranch, 
Comrade  of  Californians,  comrade  of  free  North-Westerners 

(loving  their  big  proportions), 
Comrade  of  raftsmen  and  coalmen,  comrade  of  all  who  shake 

hands  and  welcome  to  drink  and  meat, 
A  learner  with  the  simplest,  a  teacher  of  the  thoughtfullest 
A  novice  beginning  yet  experient  of  myriads  of  seasons, 
Of  every  hue  and  caste  am  I,  of  every  rank  and  religion, 
A   farmer,  mechanic,  artist,  gentleman,   sailor,   quaker, 
Prisoner,  fancy-man,  rowdy,  lawyer,  physician,  priest. 

I  resist  anything  better  than  my  own  diversity, 
Breathe  the  air  but  leave  plenty  after  me, 
And  am  not  stuck  up,  and  am  in  my  place. 

(The  moth  and  the  fish-eggs  are  in  their  place, 

The  bright  suns  I  see  and  the  dark  suns  I  cannot  see  are  in 

their  place, 
The  palpable  is  in  its  place  and  the  impalpable  is  in  its  place.) 

17 

These  are  really  the  thoughts  of  all  men  in  all  ages  and  lands, 

they  are  not  original  with  me, 
If  they  are  not  yours  as  much  as  mine  they  are  nothing,  or  next 

to  nothing, 


Song  of  Myself  39 

If  they  are  not  the  riddle  and  the  untying  of  the  riddle  they 

are  nothing, 
If  they  are  not  just  as   close  as   they  are  distant  they   are 

nothing. 
This  is  the  grass  that  grows  wherever  the  land  is  and  the 

water  is, 
This  is  the  common  air  that  bathes  the  globe. 

18 

With  music  strong  I  come,  with  my  cornets  and  my  ctoims, 
I  play  not  marches  for  accepted  victors  only,  I  play  marches 
for  conquer'd  and  slain  persons. 

Have  you  heard  that  it  was  good  to  gain  the  day? 
I  also  say  it  is  good  to  fall,  battles  are  lost  in  the  same  spirit 
in  which  they  are  won. 

I  beat  and  pound  for  the  dead, 

I  blow  through  my  embouchures  my  loudest  and  gayest  for 
them. 

Vivas  to  those  who  have  fail'd, 

And  to  those  whose  war-vessels  sank  in  the  sea! 

And  to  those  themselves  who  sank  in  the  sea  1 

And  to  all  generals  that  lost  engagements,  and  all  overcome 

heroes ! 
And  the  numberless   unknown   heroes   equal   to   the   greatest 

heroes  known! 

19 

This  is  the  meal  equally  set,  this  the  meat  for  natural  hunger, 
It  is  for^the  wicked  just  the  same  as  the  righteous,  I  make 

appointments  with  all, 

I  will  not  have  a  single  person  slighted  or  left  away, 
The  kept-woman,  sponger,  thief,  are  hereby  invited, 
The  heavy-lipp'd  slave  is   invited,  the  venerealee  is  invited; 
There  shall  be  no  difference  between  them  and  the  rest. 

This  is  the  press  of  a  bashful  hand,  this  the  float  and  odour  of 

hair, 
This  the   touch  of  my   lips   to   yours,   this   the  murmur  of 

yearning, 


40  Leaves  of  Grass 

This  the  far-off  depth  and  height  reflecting  my  own  face, 
This  the  thoughtful  merge  of  myself,  and  the  outlet  again. 

Do  you  guess  I  have  some  intricate  purpose? 

Well   I   have,   for  the  Fourth-month   showers  have,   and  the 

mica  on  the  side  of  a  rock  has. 
Do  you  take  it  I  would  astonish? 
Does  the  daylight  astonish?  does  the  early  redstart  twittering 

through  the  woods? 
Do   I  astonish  more  than   they? 

This  hour  I  tell  things  in  confidence, 

I  might  not  tell  everybody,  but  I  will  tell  you. 


20 

Who  goes  there?  hankering,  gross,  mystical,  nude; 
How  is  it  that  I  extract  strength  from  the  beef  I  eat? 

What  is  a  man  anyhow?  what  am  I?  what  are  you? 

All  I  mark  as  my  own  you  shall  offset  it  with  your  own, 
Else  it  were  time  lost  listening  to  me. 

I  do  not  snivel  that  snivel  the  world  over, 
That  months  are  vacuums  and  the  ground  but  wallow  and 
filth. 

Whimpering  and  truckling,  fold  with  powders  for  invalids, 

conformity  goes  to  the  fourth-remov'd, 
I  wear  my  hat  as  I  please  indoors  or  out. 

Why  should  I  pray?   why  should   I  venerate  and  be 
monious  ? 

Having  pried  through  the  strata,  analysed  to  a  hair,  counsell'd 

with  doctors  and  calculated  close, 
I  find  no  sweeter  fat  than  sticks  to  my  own  bones. 

In  all  people  I  see  myself,  none  more  and  not  one  a  barley 
corn  less, 
And  the  good  or  bad  I  say  of  myself  I  say  of  theo,. 


Song  of  Myself  41 

I  know  I  am  solid  and  sound, 

To  me  the  converging  objects  of  the  universe  perpetually  flow, 

All  are  written  to  me,  and  I  must  get  what  the  writing  means. 

I  know    I  am    deathless, 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept  by  a  carpenter's 

compass, 
I  know  I  shall  not  pass  like  a  child's  carlacue  cut  with   a 

burnt  stick  at  night. 

I  know  I  am  august, 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  understood, 
I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apologise, 
(I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the  level  I  plant  my  house 
by,  after  all). 

I  exist  as  I  am,  that  is  enough, 

If  no  other  in  the  world  be  aware  I  sit  content, 

And  if  each  and  all  be  aware  I  sit  content. 

One  world  is  aware  and  by  far  the  largest  to  me,  and  that  is 

myself, 
And  whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day  or  in  ten  thousand  or 

ten  million  years, 
I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal  cheerfulness  I  can 

wait. 

My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite, 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time. 


21 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Soul, 
The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me  and  the  pains  of  hell 

are  with  me, 

The  first  I  graft  and  increase  upon  myself,  the  latter  I  trans 
late  into  a  new  tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of  men. 


42  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  or  pride, 

We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough, 

I  show  that  size  is  only  development. 

Have  you  outstript  the  rest?  are  you  the  President? 

It  is  a  trifle,  they  will  more  than  arrive  there  every  one,  and 

still  pass  on. 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night, 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 

Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night — press  close  magnetic  nourish 
ing  night  I 

Night  of  south  winds — night  of  the  large  few  stars 
Still  nodding  night — mad  naked  summer  night. 

Smile  O    voluptuous   cool-breath'd   earth  1 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees ! 
Earth  of  departed  sunset — earth  of  the  mountains  misty-topt ! 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with 

blue! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river ! 
Earth  of  the  limpid  grey  of  clouds  brighter  and  clearer  for  my 

sake! 

Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth — rich  apple-blossm'd  earth ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love — therefore  I  to  you  give  love! 

0  unspeakable  passionate  love. 

22 

You  sea!  I  resign  myself  to  you  also — I  guess  what  you  mean, 

1  behold  from  the  beach  your  crooked  inviting  fingers, 
I  believe  you  refuse  to  go  back  without  feeling  of  me, 

We  must  have  a  turn  together,  I  undress,  hurry  me  out  of 

sight  of  land, 

Cushion  me  soft,  rock  me  in  billowy  drowse, 
Dash  me  with  amorous  wet,  I  can  repay  you. 

Sea  of  stretch'd  ground-swells, 
Sea  breathing  broad  and  convulsive  breaths, 
Sea  of  the  brine  of  life  and  of  unshovell'd  yet  always-ready 
grares, 


Song  of  Myself  43 

Howler  and  scooper  of  storms,  capricious  and  dainty  sea, 

I  am  integral  with  you,  I  too  am  of  one  phase  and  of  all  phases. 

Partaker  of  influx  and  efflux  I,  extoller  of  hate  and  conciliation, 
Extoller  of  amies  and  those  that  sleep  in  each  other's  arms. 

1  am  he  attesting  sympathy, 

(Shall  I  make  my  list  of  things  in  the  house  and  skip  the 
house  that  supports  them?) 

I  am  not  the  poet  of  goodness  only,  I  do  not  decline  to  bte 
the  poet  of  wickedness  also. 

What  blurt  is  this  about  virtue  and  about  vice? 

Evil   propels   me   and    reform   of    evil    propels    me,    I    stand 

indifferent, 

My  gait  is  no  fault-finder's  or  rejecter's  gait, 
I  moisten  the  roots  of  all  that  has  grown. 

Did  you  fear  some  scrofula  out  of  the  unflagging  pregnancy? 
Did  you  guess  the  celestial  laws  are  yet  to  be  workM  over  and 
rectified? 

I  find  one  side  a  balance  and  the  antipodal  side  a  balance, 

Soft  doctrine  as  steady  help  as  stable  doctrine, 

Thoughts  and  deeds  of  the  present  our  rouse  and  early  start. 

This  minute  that  comes  to  me  over  the  past  decilHons, 
There  is  no  better  than  it  and  now. 

What  behaves  well  in  the  past  or  behaves  well  to-day  is  not 

such  a  wonder, 
The  wonder  is  always  and  always  how  there  can  be  a  mean 

man  or  an  infidel. 

23 

Endless  unfolding  of  words  of  ages ! 

And  mine  a  word  of  the  modern,  the  word  En-Masse. 

A  word  of  the  faith  that  never  balks, 

Here  or  henceforward  it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  I  accept  Time 
absolutely. 


44  Leaves  of  Grass 

It  alone  is  without  flaw,  it  alone  rounds  and  completes  all, 
That  mystic  baffling  wonder  alone  completes  all. 

I  accept  Reality  and  dare  not  question  it, 
Materialism  first  and  last  imbuing. 

Hurrah  for  positive  science !  long  live  exact  demonstration ! 
Fetch  stonecrop  mixt  with  cedar  and  branches  of  lilac, 
This  is  the  lexicographer,  this  the  chemist,  this  made  a  gram 
mar  of  the  old  cartouches, 

These  mariners  put  the  ship  through  dangerous  unknown  seas, 
This  is  the  geologist,  this  works  with  the  scalpel,  and  this  is  a 
mathematician. 

Gentlemen,  to  you  the  first  honours  always ! 

Your  facts  are  useful,  and  yet  they  are  not  my  dwelling, 

I  but  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  my  dwelling. 

Less  the  reminders  of  properties  told  my  words, 

And  more  the  reminders  they  of  life  untold,  and  of  freedom 

and  extrication, 
And  make  short  account  of  neuters  and  geldings,  and  favour 

men  and  women  fully  equipt, 
And  beat  the  gong  of  revolt,  and  stop  with  fugitives  and  them 

that  plot  and  conspire. 

24 

Walt  Whitman,  a  kosmos,  of  Manhattan  the  son, 

Turbulent,  fleshy,  sensual,  eating,  drinking,  and  breeding, 

No  sentimentalist,  no  slander  above  men  and  women  or  apart 

from  them, 
No  more  modest  than  immodest. 

Unscrew  the  locks  from  the  doors! 

Unscrew  the  doors  themselves  from  their  jambs ! 

Whoever  degrades  another  degrades  me, 

And  whatever  is  done  or  said  returns  at  last  to  me. 

Through  me  the  afflatus  surging  and  surging,  through  me  the 
current  and  index. 


Song  of  Myself  45 

I  speak  the  pass-word  primeval,  I  give  the  sign  of  democracy, 
By  God !  I  will  accept  nothing  which  all  cannot  have  their 
counterpart  of  on  the  same  terms. 

Through  me  many  long  dumb  voices, 

Voices  of  the  interminable  generations  of  prisoners  and  slaves, 

Voices  of  the  diseas'd  and  despairing  and  of  thieves  and  dwarf  s, 

Voices  of  cycles  of  preparation  and  accretion, 

And  of  the  threads  that  connect  the  stars,  and  of  wombs  and 

of  the  father-stuff, 
And  of  the  rights  of  them  the  others  are  down  upon, 

Of  the  deform'd,  trivial,  flat,  foolish,  despised, 
Fog  in  the  air,  beetles  rolling  balls  of  dung. 

Through  me  forbidden  voices, 

Voices  of  sexes  and  lusts,  voices  veil'd  and  I  remove  the  veil, 

Voices  indecent  by  me  clarified  and  transfigur'd. 

I  do  not  press  my  fingers  across  my  mouth, 

I  keep  as  delicate  around  the  bowels  as  around  the  head  and 

heart, 
Copulation  is  no  more  rank  to  me  than  death  is. 

I  believe  in  the  flesh  and  the  appetites, 

Seeing,  hearing,  feeling,  are  miracles,  and  each  part  and  tag 
of  me  is  a  miracle. 

Divine  am  I  inside  and  out,  and  I  make  holy  whatever  I  touch 

or  am  touch'd  from, 

The  scent  of  these  arm-pits  aroma  finer  than  prayer, 
This  head  more  than  churches,  bibles,  and  all  the  creeds. 

If   I  worship   one  thing  more  than   another   it   shall   be  the 

spread  of  my  own  body,  or  any  part  of  it, 
Translucent  mould  of  me  it  shall  be  you! 
Shaded  ledges  and  rests  it  shall  be  you! 
Firm  masculine  colter   it   shall  be  you! 
Whatever  goes  to  the  tilth  of  me  it  shall  be  you! 
You  my  rich  blood !  your  milky  stream  pale  strippings  of  my 

life! 

Breast  that  presses  against  other  breasts  it  shall  be  you  1 
My  brain  it  shall  be  your  occult  convolutions ! 


46 


Leaves  of  Grass 


Root    of    wash'd    sweet-flag!    timorous    pond-snipe!    nest   of 

guarded  duplicate  eggs !  it  shall  be  you ! 
Mix'd  tussled  hay  of  head,  beard,  brawn,  it  shall  be  you ! 
Trickling  sap  of  maple,  fibre  of  manly  wheat,  it  shall  be  you  I 
Sun  so  generous  it  shall  be  you! 

Vapours  lighting  and  shading  my  face  it  shall  be  you! 
You  sweaty  brooks  and  dews  it  shall  be  you ! 
Winds  whose  salt-tickling  genitals  rub  against  me  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Broad  muscular  fields,  branches  of  live  oak,  loving  lounger  in 

my  winding  paths,  it  shall  be  you! 
Hands  I  have  taken,  face  I  have  kiss'd,  mortal  I  have  ever 

touch'd,  it  shall  be  you. 

I  dote  on  myself,  there  is  that  lot  of  me  and  all  so  luscious, 

Each  moment  and  whatver  happens  thrills  me  with  joy, 

I  cannot  tell  how  my  ankles  bend,  nor  whence  the  cause  of 

my  faintest  wish, 
Nor  the  cause  of   friendship   I  emit,  nor  the  cause  of  -'the 

friendship  I  take  again. 

That  I  walk  up  my  stoop,  I  pause  to  consider  if  it  really  be, 
A  morning-glory  at  my  window  satisfies  me  more  than  the 
metaphysics  of  books. 

To  behold  the  day-break! 

The  little  light  fades  the  immense  and  diaphanous  shadows, 

The  air  tastes  good  to  my  palate. 

Hefts  of  the  moving  world  at  innocent  gambols  silently  rising, 

freshly  exuding, 
Scooting  obliquely  high  and  low. 

Something  I  cannot  see  puts  upward  libidinous  prongs, 
Seas  of  bright  juice  suffuse  heaven. 

The  earth  by  the  sky  stayed  with,  the  daily  close  of  their 

junction, 

The  heav'd  challenge  from  the  east  that  moment  over  my  head, 
The  mocking  taunt,  See  then  whether  you  shall  be  master  1 

25 

Dazzling    and    tremendous,    how    quick    the    sun-rise    would 

kill  me, 
If  I  could  not  now  and  always  send  sun-rise  out  of  me. 


Song  of  Myself  47 

We  also  ascend  dazzling  and  tremendous  as  the  sun, 
We  found  our  own,  O  my  soul,  in  the  calm  and  cool  of  the 
daybreak. 

My  voice  goes  after  what  my  eyes  cannot  reach, 
With  the  twirl  of  my  tongue  I  encompass  worlds  and  volumes 
of  worlds. 

Speech  is  the  twin  of  my  vision,  it  is  unequal  to  measure  itself , 

It  provokes  me  forever,  it  says  sarcastically, 

Walt,  you  contain  enough,  why  don't  you  let  it  out  then? 

Come  now  I  will  not  be  tantalised,  you  conceive  too  much  of 

articulation, 
Do  you  not  know,  O  speech,  how  the  buds  beneath  you  are 

folded? 

Waiting  in  gloom,  protected  by  frost, 
The  dirt  receding  before  my  prophetical  screams, 
I  underlying  causes  to  balance  them  at  last, 
My  knowledge  rny  live  parts,  it  keeping  tally  with  the  meaning 

of  all  things, 
Happiness   (which  whoever  hears  me  let  him  or  her  set  out 

in  search  of  this  day). 

My  final  merit  I  refuse  you,  I  refuse  putting  from  me  what 
I  really  am, 

Encompass  worlds,  but  never  try  to  encompass  me, 

I  crowd  your  sleekest  and  best  by  simply  looking  toward  you. 

Writing  and  talk  do  not  prove  me, 

I  carry  the  plenum  of  proof  and  everything  else  in  my  face, 

With  the  hush  of  my  lips  I  wholly  confound  the  sceptic. 


26 

Now  I  will  do  nothing  but  listen, 

To  accrue  what  I  hear  into  this  song,  to  let  sounds  contribute 
toward  it. 

I  hear  bravuras  of  birds,  bustle  of  growing  wheat,  gossip  of 

flames,  clack  of  sticks,  cooking  my  meals, 
I  hear  the  sound  I  love,  the  sound  of  the  human  voice, 


48  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  hear  all  sounds  running  together,  combined,  fused,  or 
following, 

Sounds  of  the  city  and  sounds  out  of  the  city,  sounds  of  the 
day  and  night, 

Talkative  young  ones  to  those  that  like  them,  the  loud  laugh 
of  work-people  at  their  meals, 

The  angry  base  of  disjointed  friendship,  the  faint  tones  of  the 
sick, 

The  judge  with  hands  tight  to  the  desk,  his  pallid  lips  pro 
nouncing  a  death-sentence, 

The  heave'e'yo  of  stevedores  unlading  ships  by  the  wharves, 
the  refrain  of  the  anchor-lifters, 

The  ring  of  alarm-bells,  the  cry  of  fire,  the  whirr  of  swift- 
streaking  engines  and  hose-carts  with  premonitory  tinkles 
and  colour'd  lights, 

The  steam  whistle,  the  solid  roll  of  the  train  of  approaching 
cars, 

The  slow  march  play'd  at  the  head  of  the  association  march 
ing  two  and  two 

(They  go  to  guard  some  corpse,  the  flag-tops  are  draped  with 
black  muslin). 

I  hear  the  violoncello  ('tis  the  young  man's  heart's  complaint), 
I  hear  the  key'd  cornet,  it  glides  quickly  in  through  my  ears, 
It  shakes  mad-sweet  pangs  through  my  belly  and  breast 

I  hear  the  chorus,  it  is  a  grand  opera, 
Ah,  this  indeed  is  music — this  suits  me. 

A  tenor  large  and  fresh  as  the  creation  fills  me, 

The  orbic  flex,  of  his  mouth  is  pouring  and  filling  me  full. 

I  hear  the  train'd  soprano  (what  work  with  hers  is  this?) 

The  orchestra  whirls  me  wider  than  Uranus  flies, 

It  wrenches  such  ardours  from  me  I  did  not  know  I  possess'd 

them, 
It    sails   me,   I   dab  with   bare   feet,    they   are   lick'd   by   the 

indolent  waves, 

I  am  cut  by  bitter  and  angry  hair,   I  lose  my  breath, 
Steep'd    amid    honey'd    morphine,    my    windpipe    throttled    in 

fakes  of  death, 

At  length  let  up  again  to  feel  the  puzzle  of  puzzles, 
And  that  we  call  Being, 


Song  of  Myself  49 

27 

To  be  in  any  form,  what  is  that? 

(Round  and   round  we  go,   all  of   us,   and  ever  come  back 

thither), 
If  nothing  lay  more  develop'd  the  quahaug  in  its  callous  shell 

were  enough. 

Mine  is  no  callous  shell, 

I  have  instant  conductors  all  over  me  whether  I  pass  or  stop, 

They  seize  every  object  and  lead  it  harmlessly  through  me. 

I  merely  stir,  press,  feel  with  my  fingers,  and  am  happy, 
To  touch  my  person  to  some  one  else's  is  about  as  much  as  I 
can  stand. 

28 

Is  this  then  a  touch?  quivering  me  to  a  new  identity, 
Flames  and  ether  making  a  rush  for  my  veins, 
Treacherous  tip  of  me  reaching  and  crowding  to  help  them, 
My  flesh  and  blood  playing  out  lightning  to  strike  what  is 

hardly  different  from  myself, 

On  all  sides  prurient  provokers  stiffening  my  limbs, 
Straining  the  udder  of  my  heart  for  its  withheld  drip, 
Behaving  licentious  toward  me,  taking  no  denial, 
Depriving  me  of  my  best  as  for  a  purpose, 
Unbuttoning  my  clothes,  holding  me  by  the  bare  waist, 
Deluding  my  confusion  with  the  calm  of  the   sunlight  and 

pasture-fields, 

Immodestly  sliding  the  fellow-senses  away, 
They  bribed  to  swap  off  with  touch  and  go  and  graze  at  the 

edges  of  me, 
No  consideration,  no  regard  for  my  draining  strength  or  my 

anger, 

Fetching  the  rest  of  the  herd  around  to  enjoy  them  a  while, 
Then  all  uniting  to  stand  on  a  headland  and  worry  me. 

The  sentries  desert  every  other  part  of  me, 

They  have  left  me  helpless  to  a  red  marauder, 

They  all  come  to  the  headland  to  witness  and  assist  against  me. 

I  am  given  up  by  traitors, 

I  talk  wildly,  I  have  lost  rny  wits,  I  and  nobody  else  am  the 
greatest  traitor, 


50  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  went  myself  first  to  the  headland,  my  own  hands  carried  me 
there. 

You  villain  touch!  what  are  you  doing?  my  breath  is  tight  in 

its  throat, 
Unclench  your  floodgates,  you  are  too  much  for  me. 

29 

Blind  loving  wrestling  touch,  sheath'd,  hooded,  sharp-tooth'd 

touch ! 
Did  it  make  you  ache  so,  leaving  me? 

Parting  track'd  by  arriving,  perpetual  payment  of  perpetual 

loan, 
Rich  showering  rain,  and  recompense  richer  afterward. 

Sprouts  take  and  accumulate,  stand  by  the  curb  prolific  and 

vital, 
Landscapes  projected  masculine,   full-sized  and  golden. 

30 

All  truths  wait  in  all  things, 

They  neither  hasten  their  own  delivery  nor  resist  it, 

They  do  not  need  the  obstetric  forceps  of  the  surgeon, 

The  insignificant  is  as  big  to  me  as  any, 

(What  is  less  or  more  than   a  touch?) 

Logic  and  sermons  never  convince, 

The  damp  of  the  night  drives  deeper  into  my  soul. 

(Only  what  proves  itself  to  every  man  and  woman  is  so, 
Only  what  nobody  denies  is  so.) 

A  minute  and  a  drop  of  me  settle  my  brain, 
I  believe  the  soggy  clods  shall  become  lovers  and  lamps, 
And  a  compend  of  compends  is  the  meat  of  a  man  or  woman, 
And  a  summit  and  flower  there  is  the  feeling  they  have  for 

each  other, 
And  they  are  to  branch  boundlessly  out  of  that  lesson  until 

it  becomes  omnific, 
And  until  one  and  all  shall  delight  us,  and  we  them. 


Song  of  Myself  51 

31 

I  believe  a  leaf  of  grass  is  no  less  than  the  journey-work  of 

the  stars, 
And  the  pismire  is  equally  perfect,  and  a  grain  of  sand,  and 

the  egg  of  the  wren, 

And  the  tree-load  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  for  the  highest, 
And  the  running  blackberry  would  adorn  the  parlours  of  heaven, 
And  the  narrowest  hinge  in  my  hand  puts  to  scorn  all  machinery, 
And   the  cow  crunching  with   depress'd   head  surpasses   any 

statue, 
And  a  mouse  is  miracle  enough  to  stagger  sextillions  of  infidels. 

I  find  I  incorporate  gneiss,  coal,  long-threaded  moss,  fruits, 

grains,  esculent  roots. 

And  am  stucco'd  with  quadrupeds  and  birds  all  over, 
And  have  distanced  what  is  behind  me  for  good  reasons, 
But  call  anything  back  again  when  I  desire  it. 

In  vain  the  speeding  or  shyness, 

In  vain  the  plutonic  rocks  send  their   old  heat  against  my 

approach, 

In  vain  the  mastodon  retreats  beneath  its  own  powder'd  bones, 
In  vain  objects  stand  leagues  off  and  assume  manifold  shapes, 
In  vain  the  ocean  settling  in  hollows  and  the  great  monsters 

lying  low, 

In  vain  the  buzzard  houses  herself  with  the  sky, 
In  vain  the  snake  slides  through  the  creepers  and  logs, 
In  vain  the  elk  takes  to  the  inner  passes  of  the  woods, 
In  vain  the  razor-bill'd  auk  sails  far  north  to  Labrador, 
I  follow  quickly,  I  ascend  to  the  nest  in  the  fissure  of  the  cliff. 


32 

I  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid 

and  self -contain 'd, 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition, 
They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins 
They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God, 
Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania 
of  owning  things, 


52  Leaves  of  Grass 

Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thou 
sands  of  years  ago, 
Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over  the  whole  earth. 

So  they  show  their  relations  to  me  and  I  accept  them, 
They  bring  me  tokens  of  myself,  they  evince  them  plainly  in 
their  possession. 

I  wonder  where  they  get  those  tokens, 

Did  I  pass  that  way  huge  times  ago  and  negligently  drop  them? 
Myself  moving  forward  then  and  now  and  forever, 
Gathering  and  showing  more  always  and  with  velocity, 
Infinite  and  omnigenous,  and  the  like  of  these  among  them, 
Not  too  exclusive  toward  the  reachers  of  my  remembrancers, 
Picking  out  here  one  that  I  love,  and  now  go  with  him  on 
brotherly  terms. 

A  gigantic  beauty  of  a  stallion,  fresh  and  responsive  to  my 

caresses, 

Head  high  in  the  forehead,  wide  between  the  ears, 
Limbs  glossy  and  supple,  tail  dusting  the  ground, 
Eyes    full  of   sparkling  wickedness,   ears   finely   cut,   flexibly 

moving. 

His  nostrils  dilate  as  my  heels  embrace  him, 
His  well-built  limbs  tremble  with  pleasure  as  we  race  around 
and  return. 

I  but  use  you  a  minute,  then  I  resign  you,  stallion, 

Why  do  I  need  your  paces  when  I  myself  out-gallop  them? 

Even  as  I  stand  or  sit  passing  faster  than  you. 

33 

Space  and  Time !  now  I  see  it  is  true,  what  I  guess'd  at, 
What  I  guess'd  when  I  loaf'd  on  the  grass, 
What  I  guess'd  while  I  lay  alone  in  my  bed, 
And  again  as  I  walk'd  the  beach  under  the  paling  stars  of 
the  morning. 

My  ties  and  ballasts  leave  me,  my  elbows  rest  in  sea-gaps, 
I  skirt  sierras,  my  palms  cover  continents, 
I  am  afoot  with  my  vision. 


Song  of  Myself  53 

By  the  city's  quadrangular  houses — in  log  huts,  camping  with 

lumbermen, 
Along  the   ruts   of   the  turnpike,   along   the   dry   gulch   and 

rivulet  bed, 

Weeding  my  onion-patch  or  hoeing  rows  of  carrots  and  pars 
nips,  crossing  savannas,  trailing  in   forests, 
Prospecting,  gold-digging,  girdling  the  trees  of  a  new  purchase, 
Scorch'd  ankle-deep  by  the  hot  sand,  hauling  my  boat  down 

the  shallow  river, 
Where  the  panther  walks   to   and    fro  on   a  limb  overhead, 

where  the  buck  turns   furiously  at  the  hunter, 
Where  the  rattlesnake  suns  his  flabby  length  on  a  rock,  where 

the  otter  is   feeding  on   fish, 

\Vhere  the  alligator  in  his  tough  pimples  sleeps  by  the  bayou, 
Where  the  black  bear  is  searching  for  roots  or  honey,  where 

the  beaver  pats  the  mud  with  his  paddle-shaped  tail; 
Over  the  growing  sugar,  over  the  yellow-flower'd  cotton  plant, 

over  the  rice  in  its  low  moist  field, 
Over  the  sharp-peak'd  farm  house,  with  its  scallop'd  scum  and 

slender  shoots  from  the  gutters, 
Over  the  western  persimmon,  over  the  long-leav'd  corn,  over 

the  delicate  blue-flower  flax, 
Over  the  white  and  brown  buckwheat,  a  hummer  and  buzzer 

there  with  the  rest, 
Over  the  dusky  green  of  the  rye  as  it  ripples  and  shades  in 

the  breeze; 
Scaling  mountains,  pulling  myself  cautiously  up,  holding  on 

by  low  scragged  limbs, 
Walking  the  path  worn  in  the  grass  and  beat  through  the 

leaves  of  the  brush, 
Where  the  quail  is  whistling  betwixt  the  woods  and  the  wheat- 

lot, 
WThere   the   bat   flies    in    the    Seventh-month   eve,   where   the 

great  goldbug  drops  through  the  dark, 
Where  the  brook  puts  out  of  the  roots  of  the  old  tree  and 

flows  to  the  meadow, 
Where  cattle  stand  and  shake  away  flies  with  the  tremulous 

shuddering  of  their  hides, 
Where  the  cheese-cloth  hangs  in  the  kitchen,  where  andirons 

straddle  the  hearth-slab,  where  cobwebs  fall  in  festoons 

from  the  rafters; 
Where  trip-hammers   crash,   where   the  press    is   whirling   its 

cylinders, 


54  Leaves  of  Grass 

Wherever  the  human  heart  beats  with  terrible  throes  under 
its  ribs, 

Where  the  pear-shaped  balloon  is  floating  aloft  (floating  in  it 
myself  and  looking  composedly  down), 

Where  the  life-car  is  drawn  on  the  slip-noose,  where  the  heat 
hatches  pale-green  eggs  in  the  dented  sand, 

Where  the  she-whale  swims  with  her  calf  and  never  forsakes  it, 

Where  the  steamship  trails  hind-ways  its  long  pennant  of  smoke, 

Where  the  fin  of  the  shark  cuts  like  a  black  ship  out  of  the 
water, 

Where  the  half-burn'd  brig  is  riding  on  unknown  currents, 

Where  shells  grow  to  her  slimy  deck,  where  the  dead  are  cor 
rupting  below; 

Where  the  dense-starr'd  flag  is  borne  at  the  head  of  the 
regiments, 

Approaching  Manhattan  up  by  the  long-stretching  island, 

Under  Niagara,  the  cataract  falling  like  a  veil  over  my 
countenance, 

Upon  a  door-step,  upon  the  horse-block  of  hard  wood  outside, 

Upon  the  race-course,  or  enjoying  picnics  or  jigs  or  a  good 
game  of  base-ball, 

At  the  festivals,  with  blackguard  gibes,  ironical  licence,  bull- 
dances,  drinking,  laughter, 

At  the  cider-mill  tasting  the  sweets  of  the  brown  mash, 
sucking  the  juice  through  a  straw, 

At  apple-peelings  wanting  kisses  for  all  the  red  fruit  I  find, 

At  musters,  beach-parties,  friendly  bees,  huskings,  house- 
raisings  ; 

Where  the  mocking-bird  sounds  his  delicious  gurgles,  cackles, 
screams,  weeps, 

Where  the  hayrick  stands  in  the  barnyard,  where  the  drystalks 
are  scatter'd,  where  the  brood-cow  waits  in  the  hovel, 

Where  the  bull  advances  to  do  his  masculine  work,  where  the 
stud  to  the  mare,  where  the  cock  is  treading  the  hen, 

Where  the  heifers  browse,  where  geese  nip  their  food  with 
short  jerks, 

Where  sun-down  shadows  lengthen  over  the  limitless  and 
lonesome  prairie, 

Where  herds  of  buffalo  make  a  crawling  spread  of  the  square 
miles  far  and  near, 

Where  the  humming-bird  shimmers,  where  the  neck  of  the 
long-lived  swan  is  curving  and  winding, 


Song  of  Myself  55 

Where  the  laughing-gull  scoots  by  the  shore,  where  shet  laughs 
her  near-human  laugh, 

Where  bee-hives  range  on  a  grey  bench  in  the  garden  half  hid 
by  the  high  weeds, 

Where  band-neck'd  partridges  roost  in  a  ring  on  the  ground 
with  their  heads  out, 

Where  burial  coaches  enter  the  arch'd  gates  of  a  cemetery, 

Where  winter  wolves  bark  amid  wastes  of  snow  and  icicled 
trees, 

Where  the  yellow-crown'd  heron  comes  to  the  edge  of  the 
marsh  at  night  and  feeds  upon  small  crabs, 

Where  the  splash  of  swimmers  and  divers  cools  the  warm  noon, 

Where  the  katy-did  works  her  chromatic  reed  on  the  walnut- 
tree  over  the  well, 

Through  patches  of  citrons  and  cucumbers  with  silver-wired 
leaves,  4 

Through  the  salt-lick  or  orange  glade,  or  under  conical  firs, 

Through  the  gymnasium,  through  the  curtain'd  saloon,  through 
the  office  or  public  hall  ; 

Pleas'd  with  the  native  and  pleas'd  with  the  foreign,  pleas'd 
with  the  new  and  old, 

Pleas'd  with  the  homely  woman  as  well  as  the  handsome, 

Pleas'd  with  the  Quakeress  as  she  puts  off  her  bonnet  and 
talks  melodiously, 

Pleas'd  with  the  tune  of  the  choir  of  the  whitewash'd  church, 

Pleas'd  with  the  earnest  words  of  the  sweating  Methodist 
preacher,  impress'd  seriously  at  the  camp-meeting ; 

Looking  in  at  the  shop-windows  of  Broadway  the  whole  fore 
noon,  flatting  the  flesh  of  my  nose  on  the  thick  plate  glass, 

Wandering  the  same  afternoon  with  my  face  turned  up  to 
the  clouds,  or  down  a  lane  or  along  the  beach, 

My  right  and  left  arms  around  the  sides  of  two  friends,  and 
I  in  the  middle; 

Coming  home  with  the  silent  and  dark-cheek'd  bush-boy  (be 
hind  me  he  rides  at  the  drape  of  the  day), 

Far  from  the  settlements  studying  the  print  of  animals'  feet, 
or  the  moccasin  print, 

By  the  cot  in  the  hospital  reaching  lemonade  to  a  feverish 
patient, 

Nigh  the  coffin'd  corpse  when  all  is  still,  examining  with  a 
candle ; 

Voyaging  to  every  port  to  dicker  and  adventure, 

Hurrying  with  the  modern  crowd  as  eager  and  fickle  as  any, 

Hot  toward  one  I  hate,  ready  in  my  madness  to  knife  him, 


56  Leaves  of  Grass 

Solitary  at  midnight  in  my  back  yard,  my  thoughts  gone  from 

me  a  long  while, 
Walking  the  old  hills  of  Judaea  with    the  beautiful  gentle  God 

by  my  side, 

Speeding  through  space,  speeding  through  heaven  and  the  stars, 
Speeding  amid  the  seven  satellites  and  the  broad  ring,  and  the 

diameter  of  eighty  thousand  miles, 

Speeding  with  tail'd  meteors,  throwing  fire-balls  like  the  rest, 
Carrying  the  crescent  child  that  carries  its  own  full  mother  in 

its  belly, 

Storming,  enjoying,  planning,  loving,  cautioning, 
Backing  and  filling,  appearing  and  disappearing, 
I  tread  day  and  night  such  roads. 

I  visit  the  orchards  of  spheres  and  look  at  the  product, 
And  look  at  quintillions  ripen'd  and  look  at  quintillions  green. 

I  fly  those  flights  of  a  fluid  and  swallowing  soul, 
My  course  runs  below  the  soundings  of  plummets. 

I  help  myself  to  material  and  immaterial, 

No  guard  can  shut  me  off,  no  law  prevent  me. 

I  anchor  my  ship  for  a  little  while  only, 

My  messengers  continually  cruise  away  or  bring  their  returns 
to  me. 

I  go  hunting  polar  furs  and  the  seal,  leaping  chasms  with  a 
pike-pointed  staff,  clinging  to  topples  of  brittle  and  blue. 

I  ascend  to  the  foretruck. 

I  take  my  place  late  at  night  in  the  crow's-nest, 

We  sail  the  arctic  sea,  it  is  plenty  light  enough, 

Through  the  clear  atmosphere  I  stretch  around  on  the  won 
derful  beauty, 

The  enormous  masses  of  ice  pass  me  and  I  pass  them,  the 
scenery  is  plain  in  all  directions, 

The  white-topt  mountains  show  in  the  distance,  I  fling  out  my 
fancies  toward  them, 

Wre  are  approaching  some  great  battle-field  in  which  we  are 
soon  to  be  engaged, 

We  pass  the  colossal  outposts  of  the  encampment,  we  pass 
with  still  feet  and  caution, 


Song  of  Myself  57 

Or  we  are  entering  by  the  suburbs  some  vast  and  ruin'd  city, 
The  blocks  and  fallen  architecture  more  than  all  the  living 
cities  of  the  globe. 

I  am  a  free  companion,  I  bivouac  by  invading  watchfires, 
I  turn  the  bridegroom  out  of  bed  and  stay  with  the  bride 

myself, 
I  tighten  her  all  night  to  my  thighs  and  lips. 

My  voice  is  the  wife's  voice,  the  screech  by  the  rail  of  the 

stairs, 
They  fetch  my  man's  body  up  dripping  and  drowned. 

I  understand  the  large  hearts  of  heroes, 

The  courage  of  present  times  and  all  times, 

How  the  skipper  saw  the  crowded  and  rudderless  wreck  of  the 

steamship,  and  Death  chasing  it  up  and  down  the  storm, 
How  he  knuckled  tight  and  gave  not  back  an  inch,  and  was 

faithful  of  days  and  faithful  of  nights, 
And  chalked  in  large  letters  on  a  board,  Be  of  good  cheer,  we 

will  not  desert  you; 
How  he  follow'd  with  them  and  tack'd  with  them  three  days 

and  would  not  give  it  up, 
How  he  saved  the  drifting  company  at  last, 
How  the  lank  loose-gown'd  women  look'd  when  boated  from 

the  side  of  their  prepared  graves, 
How  the  silent  old-faced  infants  and  the  lifted  sick,  and  the 

sharp-lipp'd  unshaven  men; 
All  this  I  swallow,  it  tastes  good,  I  like  it  well,  it  becomes 

mine, 
I  am  the  man,  I  suffer'd,  I  was  there. 

The  disdain  and  calmness  of  martyrs, 

The  mother  of  old,  condemn'd   for  a  witch,  burnt  with  dry 

wood,  her  children  gazing  on, 
The  hounded  slave  that  flags  in  the  race,  leans  by  the  fence, 

blowing,  cover'd  with  sweat, 
The  twinges   that  sting  like  needles  his   legs  and  neck,   the 

murderous  buckshot  and  the  bullets, 
All  these  I   feel  or  am. 

I  am  the  hounded  slave,  I  wince  at  the  bite  of  the  dogs, 
Hell  and  despair   are   upon   me,   crack  and  again   crack  the 
marksmen, 


58  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  clutch  the  rails  of  the  fence,  my  gore  dribs,  thinn'd  with 

the  ooze  of  my  skin, 
I  fall  on  the  weeds  and  stones, 
The  riders  spur  their  unwilling  horses,  haul  close, 
Taunt  my  dizzy  ears  and  beat  me  violently  over  the  head  with 

whip-stocks. 

Agonies  are  one  of  my  changes  of  garments, 
I  do  not  ask  the  wounded  person  how  he  feels,  I  myself  be 
come  the  wounded  person, 
My  hurts  turn  livid  upon  me  as  I  lean  on  a  cane  and  observe. 

I  am  the  mash'd  fireman  with  breast-bone  broken. 

Tumbling  walls  buried  me  in  their  debris, 

Heat  and  smoke  I  inspired,  I  heard  the  yelling  shouts  of  my 

comrades, 

I  heard  the  distant  click  of  their  picks  and  shovels, 
They  have  clear'd  the  beams  away,  they  tenderly  lift  me  forth. 

I  lie  in  the  night  air  in  my  red  shirt,  the  pervading  hush  is 

for  my  sake, 

Painless  after  all  I  lie  exhausted  but  not  so  unhappy, 
White  and  beautiful  are  the  faces  around  me,  the  heads  are 

bared  of  their  fire-caps, 
The  kneeling  crowd  fades  with  the  light  of  the  torches. 

Distant  and  dead  resuscitate, 

They  show  as  the  dial  or  move  as  the  hands  of  me,  I  am  the 
clock  myself. 

I  am  an  old  artillerist  I  tell  of  my  fort's  bombardment, 
I  am  there  again. 

Again  the  long  roll  of  the  drummers, 
Again  the  attacking  cannon,  mortars, 
Again  to  my  listening  ears  the  cannon  responsive. 

I  take  part,  I  see  and  hear  the  whole, 
The  cries,  curses,  roar,  the  plaudits  for  well-aim'd  shots, 
The  ambulanza  slowly  passing  trailing  its  red  drip, 
Workmen    searching    after     damages,    making    indispensable 

repairs, 
The  fall  of  grenades  through  the  rent  roof,  the  fan-shaped 

explosion, 


• 

Song  of  Myself  59 

The  whizz  of  limbs,  heads,  stone,  wood,  iron,  high  in  the  air. 

Again  gurgles  the  mouth  of  my  dying  general,  he  furiously 
waves  with  his  hand, 

He  gasps  through  the  clot,  Mind  not  me — mind — the  entrench 
ments. 

34 

Now  I  tell  what  I  knew  in  Texas  in  my  early  youth, 
(I  tell  not  the  fall  of  Alamo, 
Not  one  escaped  to  tell  the  fall  of  Alamo, 
The  hundred  and  fifty  are  dumb  yet  at  Alamo), 
'Tis  the  tale  of  the  murder  in  cold  blood  of  four  hundred  and 
twelve  young  men. 

Retreating  they  had   formed   in  a  hollow   square  with  their 

baggage  for  breastworks, 
Nine  hundred  lives  out  of  the  surrounding  enemy's,  nine  times 

their  number,  was  the  price  they  took  in  advance, 
Their  colonel  was  wounded  and  their  ammuntion  gone, 
They  treated  for  an  honourable  capitulation,  receiv'd  writing 

and  seal,  gave  up  their  arms  and  march'd  back  prisoners 

of  war. 

They  were  the  glory  of  the  race  of  rangers, 

Matchless  with  horse,  rifle,  song,  supper,  courtship, 

Large,  turbulent,  generous,  handsome,  proud,  and  affectionate, 

Beared,  sunburnt,  drest  in  the  free  costume  of  hunters, 

Not  a  single  one  over  thirty  years  of  age. 

The   second    First-day    morning   they    were    brought    out    in 

squads  and  massacred,  it  was  beautiful  early  summer, 
The  work  commenced  about  five  o'clock  and  was  over  by  eight. 

None  obey'd  the  command  to  kneel, 

Some  made  a  mad  and  helpless  rush,  some  stood  stark  and 

straight, 
A  few  fell  at  once,  shot  in  the  temple  or  heart,  the  living  and 

dead  lay  together, 
The  maim'd  and  mangled  dug  in  the  dirt,  the  new-comers  saw 

them  there, 

Some  half-kill'd  attempted  to  crawl  away, 
These   were   despatch'd   with   bayonets   or   batterd   with    the 

blunts  of  muskets, 


60  Leaves  of  Grass 

A  youth  not  seventeen  years  old  seized  his  assassin  till  two 

more  came  to  release  him, 
The  three  were  all  torn  and  cover'd  with  the  boy's  blood. 

At  eleven  o'clock  began  the  burning  of  the  bodies ; 
That  is  the  tale  of  the  murder  of  the  four  hundred  and  twelve 
young  men. 


35 

Would  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea-fight? 
Would  you  learn  who  won  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars? 
List  to  the  yarn,  as  my  grandmother's  father  the  sailor  told 
it  to  me. 

Our  foe  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship  I  tell  you  (said  he), 

His  was  the  surly  English  pluck,  and  there  is  no  tougher  or 

truer,  and  never  was  and  never  will  be; 
Along  the  lower'd  eve  he  came  horribly  raking  us. 

We  closed  with  him,  the  yards  entangled,  the  cannon  touch'd, 
My  captain  lash'd  fast  with  his  own  hands. 

We  had  receiv'd  some  eighteen  pound  shots  under  the  water, 
On  our  lower-gun-deck  two  large  pieces  had  burst  at  the  first 
fire,  killing  all  around  and  blowing  up  overhead. 

Fighting  at  sun-down,  fighting  at  dark, 

Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the  full  moon  well  up,  our  leaks  on  the 
gain,  and  five  feet  of  water  reported, 

The  master-at-arms  loosing  the  prisoners  confined  in  the  after- 
hold  to  give  them  a  chance  for  themselves. 

The  transit  to  and  from  the  magazine  is  now  stopt  by  the 

sentinels, 

They  see  so  many  strange  faces  they  do  not  know  whom  to 
trust. 

Our  frigate  takes  fire, 

The  other  asks  if  we  demand  quarter? 

If  our  colours  are  struck  and  the  fighting  done? 


Song  of  Myself  61 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  little  captain, 
We  have  not  struck,  he  composedly  cries,  we  have  just  begun 
our  part  of  the  fighting. 

Only  three  guns  are  in  use, 

One  is  directed  by  the  captain  himself   against  the  enemy's 

mainmast, 
Two  well  serv'd  with  grape  and  canister  silence  his  musketry 

and  clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery,  especially 

the  main-top, 
They  hold  out  bravely  during  the  whole  of  the  action. 

Not  a  moment's  cease, 

The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire  eats  toward  the 
powder-magazine. 

One  of  the  pumps  has  been  shot  away,  it  is  generally  thought 
we  are  sinking. 

Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 

He  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high  nor  low, 

His  eyes  give  more  light  to  us  than  our  battle-lanterns. 

Toward  twelve  there  in  the  beams  of  the  moon  they  surrender 
to  us. 

36 

Stretch'd  and  still  lies  the  midnight, 

Two  great  hulls  motionless  on  the  breast  of  the  darkness, 

Our  vessel  riddled  and  slowly  sinking,  preparations  to  pass  to 
the  one  we  have  conquer'd, 

The  captain  on  the  2quarter-deck  coldly  giving*  his  orders 
through  a  countenance  white  as  a  sheet, 

Near  by  the  corpse  of  the  child  that  serv'd  in  the  cabin, 

The  dead  face  of  an  old  salt  with  long  white  hair  and  care 
fully  curl'd  whiskers, 

The  flames  spite  of  all  that  can  be  done  flickering  aloft  and 
below, 

The  husky  voices  of  the  two  or  three  officers  yet  fit  for  duty, 

Formless  stacks  of  bodies  and  bodies  by  themselves,  dabs  of 
flesh  upon  the  masts  and  spars, 

Cut  of  cordage,  dangle  of  rigging,  slight  shock  of  the  soothe 
of  waves, 


62  Leaves  of  Grass 

Black  and   impassive  guns,   litter   of  powder-parcels,  strong 

scent,  j 

A  few  large  stars  overhead,  silent  and  mournful  shining, 

Delicate  sniffs  of  sea-breeze,  smells  of  sedgy  grass  and  fields 

by  the  shore,  death-messages  given  in  charge  to  survivors, 

The  hiss  of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  gnawing  teeth  of  his  saw, 

Wheeze,  cluck,  swash  of  falling  blood,  short  wild  scream,  and 

long,  dull,  tapering  groan. 
These  so,  these  irretrievable. 

37 

You  laggards  there  on  guard !  look  to  your  arms  1 
In  at  the  conquer'd  doors  they  crowd !  I  am  possess'd  1 
Embody  all  presences  outlaw'd  or  suffering, 
See  myself  in  prison  shaped  like  another  man, 
And  feel  the  dull  unintermitted  pain. 

For  me  the  keepers  of  convicts  shoulder  their  carbines  and 

keep  watch, 
It  is  I  let  out  in  the  morning  and  barr'd  at  night. 

Not  a  mutineer  walks  handcuff 'd  to  jail  but  I  am  handcuff 'd 

to  him  and  walk  by  his  side, 
<I  am  less  the  jolly  one  there,  and  more  the  silent  one  with 

sweat  on  my  twitching  lips). 

Not  a  youngster  is  taken  for  larceny  but  I  go  up  too,  and  am 
tried  and  sentenced. 

Not  a  cholera  patient  lies  at  the  last  gasp  but  I  also  lie  at  the 
last  gasp, 

My  face  is  ash-colour'd,  my  sinews  gnarl,  away  from  me  peo 
ple  retreat. 

Askers  embody  themselves  in  me  and  I  am  embodied  in  them, 
I  project  my  hat,  sit  shame-faced,  and  beg. 

38 

Enough!   enough  I  enough  1 

Somehow  I  have  been  stunn'd.    Stand  backl 

Give  me  a  little  time  beyond  my  cuff'd  head,  slumbers,  dreams, 

gaping, 
I  discover  myself  on  the  verge  of  a  usual  mistake. 


Song  of  Myself  63 

That  I  could  forget  the  mockers  and  insults! 

That  I  could  forget  the  trickling  tears  and  the  blows  of  the 

bludgeons  and  hammers! 
That  I  could  look  with  a  separate  look  on  my  own  crucifixion 

and  bloody  crowning. 

I   remember  now, 

I  resume  the  overstayed  fraction, 

The  grave  of  rock  multiplies  what  has  been  confided  to  it,  or 

to  any  graves, 
Corpses  rise,  gashes  heal,  fastenings  roll  from  me. 

I  troop  forth  replenish'd  with  supreme  power,  one  of  an  aver 
age  unending  procession, 

Inland  and  sea-coast  we  go,  and  pass  all  boundary  lines, 
Our  swift  ordinances  on  their  way  over  the  whole  earth, 
The  blossoms  we  wear  in  our  hats  the  growth  of  thousands 
of  years. 

Eleves,  I  salute  you !  come  forward ! 

Continue  your  annotations,  continue  your  questionings. 

39 

The  friendly  and  flowing  savage,  who  is  he? 

Is  he  waiting  for  civilization,  or  past  it  and  mastering  it? 

Is  he  some  Southwesterner  rais'd  out-doors?  is  he  Kanadian? 
Is  he  from  the  Mississippi  country?  Iowa,  Oregon,  California? 
The  mountains?  prairie-life,  bush-life?  or  sailor  from  the  sea? 

Wherever  he  goes  men  and  women  accept  and  desire  him, 
They  desire  he  should  like  them,  touch  them,  speak  to  them, 
stay  with  them. 

Behaviour  lawless  as  snow-flakes,  words  simple  as  grass,  un- 

comb'd  head,  laughter,  and  naivete, 
Slow-stepping    feet,    common    features,    common    modes    and 

emanations, 

They  descend  in  new  forms  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers, 
They  are  wafted  with  the  odour  of  his  body  or  breath,  they 

fly  out  of  the  glance  of  his  eyes. 


64  Leaves  of  Grass 

40 

Flaunt  of  the  sunshine,      need  not  your  bask — lie  over  1 
You  light  surfaces  only,  I  force  surfaces  and  depths  also. 

Earth!  you  seem  to  look  for  something  at  my  hands, 
Say,  old  top-knot,  what  do  you  want? 

Man  or  woman,  I  might  tell  how  I  like  you,  but  cannot, 
And  might  tell  what  it  is  in  me  and  what  it  is  in  you,  but 

cannot, 
And  might  tell  that  pining  I  have,  that  pulse  of  my  nights  and 

days. 

Behold  I  do  not  give  lectures  or  a  little  charity, 
When  I  give  I  give  myself. 

You  there,  impotent,  loose  in  the  knees, 

Open  your  scarf'd  chops  till  I  blow  grit  within  you, 

Spread  your  palms  and  lift  the  flaps  of  your  pockets, 

I  am  not  to  be  denied,  I  compel,  I  have  stores  plenty  and  to 

spare, 
And  anything  I  have  I  bestow. 

I  do  not  ask  you  who  you  are,  that  is  not  important  to  me, 
You  can  do  nothing  and  be  nothing  but  what  I  will  infold 
you. 

To  cotton-field  drudge  or  cleaner  of  privies  I  lean, 

On  his  right  cheek  I  put  the  family  kiss, 

And  in  my  soul  I  swear  I  never  will  deny  him. 

On  women  fit  for  conception  I  start  bigger  and  nimbler  babes, 
(This    day    I    am    jetting    the    stuff    of    far    more   arrogant 
republics). 

To  any  one  dying,  thither  I  speed  and  twist  the  knob  of  the 

door, 

Turn  the  bed-clothes  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
Let  the  physician  and  the  priest  go  home. 

I  seize  the  descending  man  and  raise  him  with  resistless  will, 
O  despairer,  here  is  my  neck, 


Song  of  Myself  65 

By  God,  you   shall  not  go   down!   hang  your  whole  weight 
upon  me. 

I  dilate  with  you  tremendous  breath,  i  buoy  you  up, 
Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  arm'd  force, 
Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves. 

Sleep — I  and  they  keep  guard  all  night, 
No  doubt,  not  decease  shall  dare  to  lay  finger  upon  you, 
I  have  embraced  you,  and  henceforth  possess  you  to  myself, 
And  when  you  rise  in  the  morning  you  will  find  what  I  tell 
you  is  so. 

41 

I  am  he  bringing  help  for  the  sick  as  they  pant  on  their  backs, 
And  for  strong  upright  men  I  bring  yet  more  needed  help. 

I  heard  what  was  said  of  the  universe, 

Heard  it  and  heard  it  of  several  thousand  years; 

It  is  middling  well  as  far  as  it  goes — but  is  that  all? 

Magnifying  and  applying  come  I, 
Outbidding  at  the  start  the  old  cautious  hucksters, 
Taking  myself  the  exact  dimensions  of  Jehovah, 
Lithographing  Kronos,  Zeus  his  son,  and  Hercules  his  grand 
son, 

Buying  drafts  of  Osiris,  Isis,  Belus,  Brahma,  Buddha, 
In  my  portfolio  placing  Manito  loose,  Allah  on  a  leaf,  the 

crucifix  engraved, 
With  Odin  and  the  hideous-faced  Mexitli  and  every  idol  and 

image, 

Taking  them  all  for  what  they  are  worth  and  not  a  cent  more, 
Admitting  they  were  alive  and  did  the  work  of  their  days, 
(They  bore  mites  as  for  unfledg'd  birds  who  have  now  to  rise 

and  fly  and  sing  for  themselves), 
Accepting  the  rough  deific  sketches  to  fill  out  better  in  myself, 

bestowing  them  freely  on  each  man  and  woman  I  see, 
Discovering  as  much  or  more  in  a  framer  framing  a  house, 
Putting  higher  claims  for  him  in  there  with  his  roll'd-up 

sleeves  driving  the  mallet  and  chisel, 
Not   objecting  to   special    revelations,  considering  a   curl   of 

smoke  or  a  hair  on  the  back  of  my  hand  just  as  curious 

as  any  revelation, 


66  Leaves  of  Grass 

Lads  ahold  of  fire-engines  and  hook-and-ladder  ropes  no  less 

to  me  than  the  gods  of  the  antique  wars, 
Minding  their  voices  peal  through  the  crash  of  destruction, 
Their   brawny   limbs   passing    safe   over   charr'd   laths,   their 

white  foreheads  whole  and  unhurt  out  of  the  flames; 
By  the  mechanic's  wife  with  her  babe  at  her  nipple  interceding 

for  every  person  born, 
Three  scythes  at  harvest  whizzing  in  a  row  from  three  lusty 

angels  with  shirts  bagg'd  out  at  their  waists, 
The  snag-tooth'd  hostler  with  red  hair  redeeming  sins  past 

and  to  come, 
Selling  all  he  possesses,  travelling  on  foot  to  fee  lawyers  for 

his  brother  and  sit  by  him  while  he  is  tried  for  forgery ; 
What  was  strewn  in  the  amplest  strewing  the  square  rod  about 

me,  and  not  filling  the  square  rod  then, 
The  bull  and  the  bug  never  worshipp'd  half  enough, 
Dung  and  dirt  more  admirable  than  was  dream'd, 
The  supernatural  of  no  account,  myself  waiting  my  time  to 

be  one  of  the  supremes, 
The  day  getting  ready  for  me  when  I  shall  do  as  much  good 

as  the  best,  and  be  as  prodigious; 
By  my  life-lumps !  becoming  already  a  creator, 
Putting  myself  here  and  now  to  the  ambush'd  womb  of  the 

shadows. 

42 

A  call  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 

My  own  voice,  orotund,  sweeping,  and  final. 

Come,  my  children, 

Come,  my  boys  and  girls,  my  women,  household  and  intimates, 
Now  the  performer  launches  his  nerve,  he  has  pass'd  his  pre 
lude  on  the  reeds  within. 

Easily  written  loose-finger'd  chords — I  feel  the  thrum  of  your 
climax  and  close. 

My  head  slues  round  on  my  neck, 

Music  rolls,  but  not  from  the  organ, 

Folks  are  around  me,  but  they  are  no  household  of  mine. 

Ever  the  hard  unsunk  ground, 

Ever  the  eaters  and  drinkers,  ever  the  upward  and  downward 
sun,  ever  the  air  and  the  ceaseless  tides, 


Song  of  Myself  67 

Ever  myself  and  my  neighbours,  refreshing,  wicked,  real, 
Ever  the  old  inexplicable  query,  ever  that  thorn'd  thumb,  that 

breath  of  itches  and  thirsts, 
Ever  the  vexer's  hoot!  hoot!  till  we  find  where  the  sly  one 

hides  and  bring  him  forth, 
Ever  love,  ever  sobbing  liquid  of  life, 
Ever  the  bandage  under  the  chin,  ever  the  trestles  of  death. 

Here  and  there  with  dimes  on  the  eyes  walking, 

To  feed  the  greed  of  the  belly  the  brains  liberally  spooning, 

Tickets  buying,  taking,  selling,  but  in  to  the  feast  never  once 

going, 
Many  sweating,  ploughing,  thrashing,  and  then  the  chaff  for 

payment  receiving, 
A  few  idly  owning,  and  they  the  wheat  continually  claiming. 

This  is  the  city  and  I  am  one  of  the  citizens, 

Whatever  interests  the  rest  interests  me,  politics,  wars,  mar 
kets,  newspapers,  schools, 

The  mayor  and  councils,  banks,  tariffs,  steamships,  factories, 
stocks,  stores,  real  estate,  and  personal  estate. 

The  little  plentiful  mannikins  skipping  around  in  collars  and 

tail'd  coats, 
I  am  aware  who  they  are  (they  are  positively  not  worms  or 

fleas), 
I   acknowledge   the    duplicates    of    myself,    the    weakest   and 

shallowest  is   deathless  with  me, 
What  I  do  and  say  the  same  waits  for  them, 
Every  thought  that  flounders  in  me  the  same  flounders  in  them. 

I   know  perfectly   well   my   own   egotism, 

Know  my  omnivorous  lines  and  must  not  write  any  less, 

And  would  fetch  you,  whoever  you  are,  flush  with  myself. 

Not  words  of  routine  this  song  of  mine, 

But  abruptly  to  question,  to  leap  beyond  yet  nearer  bring; 

This  printed  and  bound  book — but  the  printer  and  the  print 
ing-office  boy? 

The  well-taken  photographs — but  your  wife  or  friend  close 
and  solid  in  your  arms? 

The  black  ship  mail'd  with  iron,  her  mighty  guns  in  her  tur 
rets — but  the  pluck  of  the  captain  and  engineers  ? 


68  Leaves  of  Grass 

In  the  houses  the  dishes  and  fare  and  furniture — but  the  host 

and  hostess,  and  the  look  out  of  their  eyes? 
The  sky  up  there — yet  here  or  next  door,  or  across  the  way? 
The  saints  and  sages  in  history — but  you  yourself? 
Sermons,  creeds,  theology — but  the  fathomless  human  brain, 
And  what  is  reason?  and  what  is  love?  and  what  is  life? 

43 

I  do  not  despise  you  priests,  all  time,  the  world  over, 

My  faith  is  the  greatest  of  faiths  and  the  least  of  faiths, 

Enclosing  worship  ancient  and  modern  and  all  between  ancient 
and  modern, 

Believing  I  shall  come  again  upon  the  earth  after  five  thou 
sand  years, 

Waiting  responses  from  oracles,  honouring  the  gods,  saluting 
the  sun, 

Making  a  fetish  of  the  first  rock  or  stump,  powowing  with 
sticks  in  the  circle  of  obis, 

Helping  the  llama  or  brahmin  as  he  trims  the  lamps  of  the 
idols, 

Dancing  yet  through  the  streets  in  a  phallic  procession,  rapt 
and  austere  in  the  woods  a  gymnosophist, 

Drinking  mead  from  the  skull-cup,  to  Shastas  and  Vedas 
admirant,  minding  the  Koran, 

Walking  the  teokallis,  spotted  with  gore  from  the  stone  and 
knife,  beating  the  serpent-skin  drum, 

Accepting  the  Gospels,  accepting  him  that  was  crucified,  know 
ing  assuredly  that  he  is  divine, 

To  the  mass  kneeling  or  the  puritan's  prayer  rising,  or  sitting 
patiently  in  a  pew, 

Ranting  and  frothing  in  my  insane  crisis  or  waiting  dead-like 
till  my  spirit  arouses  me, 

Looking  forth  on  pavement  and  land,  or  outside  of  pavement 
and  land, 

Belonging  to  the  winders  of  the  circuit  of  circuits. 

One  of  that  centripetal  and  centrifugal  gang  I  turn  and  talk 
like  a  man  leaving  charges  before  a  journey. 

Down-hearted  doubters  dull  and  excluded, 

Frivolous,  sullen,  moping,  angry,  affected,  dishearten'd,  athe 
istical, 

I  know  every  ore  of  you,  I  know  the  sea  of  torment,  doubt, 
despair,  and  unbelief. 


Song  of  Mvself  69 

How   the   flukes   slash! 

How  they  contort  rapid  as  lightning,  with  spasms  and  spouts 
of  blood! 

Be  at  peace  bloody  flukes  of  doubters  and  sullen  mopers, 
I  take  my  place  among  you  as  much  as  among  any, 
The  past  is  the  push  of  you,  me,  all,  precisely  the  same, 
And  what  is  yet  untried  and  afterwards  is  for  you,  me,  all 
precisely  the  same. 

I  do  not  know  what  is  untried  and  afterward, 

But  I  know  it  will  in  its  turn  prove  sufficient,  and  cannot  fail. 

Each  who  passes  is  consider'd,  each  who  stops  Is  consider'd, 
not  a  single  one  can  it  fail. 

It  cannot  fail  the  young  man  who  died  and  was  buried, 
Nor  the  young  woman  who  died  and  was  put  by  his  side, 
Nor  the  little  child  that  peep'd  in  at  the  door,  and  then  drew 

back  and  was  never  seen  again, 
Nor  the  old  man  who  has  lived  without  purpose,  and  feels  it 

with  bitterness  worse  than  gall, 
Nor  him  in  the  poor  house  tubercled  by  rum  and  the  bad 

disorder, 
Nor  the  numberless  slaughter'd  and  wreck'd,  nor  the  brutish 

koboo  call'd  the  ordure  of  humanity, 
Nor  the  sacs  merely  floating  with  open  mouths  for  food  to 

slip  in, 
Nor   anything   in   the  earth,   or   down   in   the   oldest  graves 

of  the  earth, 
Nor  anything  in  the  myriads  of  spheres,  nor  the  myriads  of 

myriads  that  inhabit  them, 
Nor  the  present,  nor  the  least  wisp  that  is  known. 


44 

It  is  time  to  explain  myself — let  us  stand  up. 

What  is  known  I  strip  away, 

I    launch   all    men    and    women    forward    with   me   into    the 
Unknown. 

The    clock    indicates    the    moment — but    what    does    eternity 
indicate? 


70  Leaves  of  Grass 

We  have  thus  far  exhausted  trillions  of  winters  and  summers, 
There  are  trillions  ahead,  and  trillions  ahead  of  them. 

Births  have  brought  us  richness  and  variety, 

And  other  births  will  bring  us  richness  and  variety. 

I  do  not  call  one  greater  and  one  smaller, 

That  which  fills  its  period  and  place  is  equal  to  any. 

Were  mankind  murderous  or  jealous  upon  you,  my  brother, 

my  sister? 

I  am  sorry  for  you,  they  are  not  murderous  or  jealous  upon  me, 
All  has  been  gentle  with  me,  I  keep  no  account  of  lamentation, 
(What  have  I  to  do  with  lamentation?) 

I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplished,  and  I  an  encloser  of 
things  to  be. 

My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stairs, 

On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches  between 

the  steps, 
All  below  duly  travell'd,  and  still  I  mount  and  mount. 

Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind  me, 

Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing,  I  know  I  was  even 

there, 
I  waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  through  the  lethargic 

mist, 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt  from  the  fetid  carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugg'd  close — long  and  long. 

Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 

Cycles   ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and   rowing  like  cheerful 

boatmen. 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings, 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold  me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother  generations  guided  me, 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid,  nothing  could  overlay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 


Song  of  Myself  71 

Monstrous   sauroids  transported  it  in   their  mouth?  and   de 
posited  it  with  care. 

All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to  complete  and  de 
light  me, 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  soul. 

45 

O  span  of  youth !  ever-push'd  elasticity ! 

0  manhood,  balanced,  florid,  and   full. 

My  lovers  suffocate  me, 

Crowding  my  lips,  thick  in  the  pores  of  my  skin. 

Jostling  me  through  streets  and  public  halls,  coming  naked  to 

me  at  night, 
Crying  by  day  Ahoy!  from  the  rocks  of  the  river,  swinging 

and  chirping  over  my  head, 

Calling  my  name  from  flower-beds,  vines,  tangled  underbrush, 
Lighting  on  every  moment  of  my  life, 
Bussing  my  body  with  soft  balsamic  busses, 
Noiselessly  passing  handfuls  out  of  their  hearts  and  giving 

them  to  be  mine. 

Old  age  superbly  rising!    O  welcome,  ineffable  grace  of  dying 
days! 

Every  condition  promulges  not  only  itself,  it  promulges  what 

grows  after  and  out  of  itself, 
And  the  dark  hush  promulges  as  much  as  any. 

1  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems, 
And  all  I  see  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher  edge  but  the 

rim  of  the  farther  systems. 

Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding, 
Outward  and  outward  and  for  ever  outward. 

My  sun  has  his  sun  and  around  him  obediently  wheels, 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside 
them. 

There  is  no  stoppage  and  never  can  be  stoppage, 


72  Leaves  of  Grass 

If  I,  you,  and  the  worlds,  all  beneath  or  upon  their  surfaces, 
were  this  moment  reduced  back  to  a  pallid  float,  it  would 
not  avail  in  the  long  run, 

We  should  surely  bring  up  again  where  we  now  stand, 
And  surely  go  as  much  farther  and  then  farther  and  farther. 

A  few  quadrillions  of  eras,  a  few  octillions  of  cubic  leagues, 

do  not  hazard  the  span  or  make  it  impatient, 
They  are  but  parts,  anything  is  but  a  part. 

See  ever  so  far,  there  is  limitless  space  outside  of  that, 
Count  ever  so  much,  there  is  limitless  time  around  that. 

My  rendezvous  is  appointed,  it  is  certain, 

The   Lord    will   be   there   and    wait   till   I   come   on   perfect 

terms, 
The  great  Camerado,  the  lover  true  for  whom  I  pine  will  be 

there. 

46 

I  know  I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space,  and  was  never 
measured  and  never  will  be  measured. 

I  tramp  a  perpetual  journey  (come  listen  all!) 

My  signs  are  a  rain-proof  coat,  good  shoes,  and  a  staff  cut 

from  the  woods, 

No  friend  of  mine  takes  his  ease  in  my  chair, 
I  have  no  chair,  no  church,  no  philosophy, 
I  lead  no  man  to  a  dinner-table,  library,  exchange, 
But  each  man  and  each  woman  of  you  I  lead  upon  a  knoll, 
My  left  hand  hooking  you  round  the  waist, 
My  right  hand  pointing  to  landscapes  of  continents  and  the 

public  road. 

Not  I,  not  any  one  else  can  travel  that  road  for  you, 
You  must  travel  it  for  yourself. 

It  is  not  far,  it  is  within  reach, 

Perhaps  you  have  been  on  it  since  you  were  born  and  did  not 

know, 
Perhaps  it  is  everywhere  on  water  and  on  land. 

Shoulder  your  duds,  dear  son,  and  I  will  mine,  and  let  us 

hasten  forth, 
Wonderful  cities  and  free  nations  we  shall  fetch  as  we  go. 


Song  of  Myself  73 

If  you  tire,  give  me  both  burdens,  and  rest  the  chuff  of  your 

hand  on  my  hip, 

And  in  due  time  you  shall  repay  the  same  service  to  me, 
For  after  we  start  we  never  lie  by  again. 

This  day  before  dawn  I  ascended  a  hill  and  look'd  at  the 
crowded  heaven, 

And  I  said  to  my  spirit,  When  we  become  the  er.folders  of 
those  orbs,  and  the  pleasure  and  knowledge  of  everything 
in  them,  shall  we  be  fill'd  and  satisfied  then? 

And  my  spirit  said,  No,  we  but  level  that  lift  to  pass  and  con 
tinue  beyond. 

You  are  also  asking  me  questions  and  I  hear  you, 

I  answer  that  I  cannot  answer,  you  must  find  out  for  yourself. 

Sit  a  while,  dear  son, 

Here  are  biscuits  to  eat  and  here  is  milk  to  drink, 

But  as  soon  as  you  sleep  and  renew  yourself  in  sweec  clothes, 

I  kiss  you  with  a  good-bye  kiss  and  open  the  gate  for 

your  egress  hence. 

Long  enough  have  you  dream'd  contemptible  dreams, 

Mow  I  wash  the  gum  from  your  eyes, 

You  must  habit  yourself  to  the  dazzle  of  the  light  and  of 

every  moment  of  your  life. 
Long  have  you  timidly  waded  holding  a  plank  by  the  shore, 
Mow  I  will  you  to  be  a  bold  swimmer, 
To  jump  off  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  rise  again,  nod  to  me, 

shout,  and  laughingly  dash  with  your  hair. 

47 

I  am  the  teacher  of  athletes, 

He  that  by  me  spreads  a  wider  breast  than  my  own  proves 

the  width  of  my  own, 
He  most  honours  my  style  who  learns  under  it  to  destroy  the 

teacher. 

The  boy  I  love,  the  same  becomes  a  man  not  through  derived 

power,  but  in  his  own  right, 
Wicked  rather  than  virtuous  out  of  conformity  or  fear, 
Fond  of  his  sweetheart,  relishing  well  his  steak, 
Unrequited   love  or  a   slight  cutting,  him   worse  than   sharp 

steel  cuts, 


74  Leaves  of  Grass 

First-rate  to  ride,  to  fight,  to  hit  the  bull's  eye,  to  sail  a  skitt, 

to  sing  a  song  or  play  on  the  banjo, 
Preferring  scars  and  the  beard  and  faces  pitted  with  small-pox 

over  all  latherers, 
And  those  well-tann'd  to  those  that  keep  out  of  the  sun. 

I  teach  straying  from  me,  yet  who  can  stray  from  me? 
I  follow  you  whoever  you  are  from  the  present  hour, 
My  words  itch  at  your  ears  till  you  understand  them. 

I  do  not  say  these  things  for  a  dollar  or  to  fill  up  the  time 

while  I  wait  for  a  boat, 
(It  is  you  talking  just  as  much  as  myself,  I  act  as  the  tongue 

of  you, 
Tied  in  your  mouth,  in  mine  it  begins  to  be  loosen'd). 

I  swear  I  will  never  again  mention  love  or  death  inside  a  house, 

And  I  swear  I  will  never  translate  myself  at  all,  only  to  him 

or  her  who  privately  stays  with  me  in  the  open  air. 

If  you  would  understand  me  go  to  the  heights  or  water-shore, 
The  nearest  gnat  is  an  explanation,  and  a  drop  or  motion  of 

waves  a  key, 

The  maul,  the  oar,  the  hand-saw,  second  my  words. 
No  shutter'd  room  or  school  can  commune  with  me, 
But  roughs  and  little  children  better  than  they. 

The  young  mechanic  is  closest  to  me,  he  knows  me  well, 
The  woodman  that  takes  his  axe  and  jug  with  him  shall  take 

me  with  him  all  day, 
The  farm-boy  ploughing  in  the  field  feels  good  at  the  sound 

of  my  voice, 
In  vessels  that  sail  my  words  sail,  I  go  with  fishermen  and 

seamen  and  love  them. 

The  soldier  camp'd  or  upon  the  march  is  mine, 

On  the  night  ere  the  pending  battle  many  seek  me,  and  I  do 

not  fail  them, 
On  that  solemn  night  (it  may  be  their  last)  those  that  know 

me  seek  me. 

My  face  rubs  to  the  hunter's  face  when  he  lies  down  alone  in 

his  blanket, 
The   driver  thinking  of  me   does   not  mind   the  jolt   of   his 

wagon, 


Song  of  Myself  75 

The  young  mother  and  old  mother  comprehend  me, 

The  girl  and  the  wife  rest  the  needle  a  moment  and  forget 

where  they  are, 
They  and  all  would  resume  what  I  have  told  them. 


48 

I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the  body, 
And  I  have  said  that  the  body  is  not  more  than  the  soul, 
And  nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one  than  one's  self  is, 
And  whoever  walks  a  furlong  without  sympathy  walks  to  his 
own  funeral  drest  in  his  shroud, 

I  or  you  pocketless  of  a  dime  may  purchase  the  pick  of 
the  earth, 

And  to  glance  with  an  eye  or  show  a  bean  in  its  pod  con 
founds  the  learning  of  all  times, 
.nd  there  is   no  trade  or   employment  but   the  young  man 

following  it  may  become  a  hero, 
\nd  there  is  no  object  so  soft  but  it  makes  a  hub  for  the 

wheel'd  universe, 
And  I  say  to  any  man  or  woman,  Let  your  soul  stand  cool  and 

composed  before  a  million  universes. 
And  I  say  to  mankind,  Be  not  curious  about  God, 
ror  I  who  am  curious  about  each  am  not  curious  about  God, 
No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about 
God  and  about  death). 


hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  understand  God 

not  in  the  least, 

Nor  do  I  understand  who  there  can  be  more  wonderful  than 
myself. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day? 
see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  and 

each  moment  then, 
the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my  own 

face  in  the  glass, 
I  find  letters  from  God  dropt  in  the  street,  and  every  one  is 

sign'd  by  God's  name, 
And  I  leave  them  where  they  are,  for  I  know  that  wheresoe'er 

I  go, 
Dthers  will  punctually  come  for  ever  and  ever. 


76  Leaves  of  Grass 

49 

And  as  to  you,  Death,  and  you,  bitter  hug  of  mortality,  it  is 
idle  to  try  to  alarm  me. 

To  his  work  without  flinching  the  accoucheur  comes, 
I  see  the  elder-hand  pressing,  receiving,  supporting, 
I  recline  by  the  sills  of  the  exquisite  flexible  doors, 
And  mark  the  outlet,  and  mark  the  relief  and  escape. 

And  as  to  you,  Corpse,  I  think  you  are  good  manure,  but 

that  does  not  offend  me, 

I  smell  the  white  roses  sweet-scented  and  growing, 
I  reach  to  the  leafy  lips,  I  reach  to  the  polish'd  breasts  of 

melons. 

And  as  to  you,  Life,  I  reckon  you  are  the  leavings  of  many 

deaths, 
(No  doubt  I  have  died  myself  ten  thousand  times  before). 

I  hear  you  whispering  there,  O  stars  of  heaven, 

0  suns — O  grass  of  graves — O  perpetual  transfers  and  pro 

motions, 

If  you  do  Hot  say  anything  how  can  I  say  anything? 
Of  the  turbid  pool  that  lies  in  the  autumn  forest, 
Of  the  moon  that  descends  the  steeps  of  the  soughing  twilight. 
Toss,  sparkles  of  day  and  dusk — toss  on  the  black  stems  that 

decay  in  the  muck, 
Toss  to  the  moaning  gibberish  of  the  dry  limbs. 

1  ascend  from  the  moon,  I  ascend  from  the  night, 

I   perceive   that   the   ghastly   glimmer   is   noonday   sunbeams 

reflected, 
And  debouch  to  the  steady  and  central  from  the  offspring; 

great  or  small. 

50 

There  is  that  in  me — I  do  not  know  what  it  is — but  I  know  it 
is  in  me. 

Wrench'd  and  sweaty — calm  and  cool  then  my  body  becomes, 
I  sleep — I  sleep  long. 

I  do  not  know  it — it  is  without  name — it  is  a  word  unsaid, 
It  is  not  in  any  dictionary,  utterance,  symbol. 


Song  of  Myself  77 

Something  it  swings  on  more  than  the  earth  I  swing  on, 
To  it  the  creation  is  the  friend  whose  embracing  awakes  me. 

Perhaps  I  might  tell  more.  Outlines !  I  plead  for  my  brothers 
and  sisters. 

Do  you   see,   O   my  brothers   and   sisters? 
It  is  not  chaos  or  death — it  is  form,  union,  plan — it  is  eternal 
life — it  is  Happiness. 

51 

The  past  and  present  wilt — I  have  fill'd  them,  emptied  them, 
And  proceed  to  fill  my  next  fold  of  the  future. 

Listen  up  there!  what  have  you  to  confide  to  me? 
Look  in  my  face  while  I  snuff  the  sidle  of  evening, 
(Talk  honestly,  no  one  else  hears  you,  and   I  stay  only  a 
minute  loneer). 

Do  I  contradict  myself? 
Very  well  then,  I  contradict  myself, 
(I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes). 

I  concentrate  toward  them  that  are  nigh,  I  wait  on  the  door- 
slab. 

Who  has  done  his  day's  work?  who  will  soonest  be  through 

with  his  supper? 
Who  wishes  to  talk  with  me? 

Will  you  speak  before  I  am  gone?  will  you  prove  already  too 
late? 

52 

The  spotted  hawk  swoops  by  and  accuses  me,  he  complains  of 
my  gab  and  my  loitering. 

I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed,  I  too  am  untranslatable, 
I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 

The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me, 

It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest  and  true  as  any  on  the 

shadow'd    wilds, 
It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapour  and  the  dusk. 

I  depart  as  air,  I  shake  my  white  locks  at  the  runaway  sun, 
I  effuse  my  flesh  in  eddies,  and  drift  it  in  lacy  jags. 


78 


Leaves  of  Grass 


I  bequeath  myself  to  the  dirt  to  grow  from  the  grass  I  love, 
If  you  want  me  again  look  for  me  under  your  boot-soles. 

You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am  or  what  I  mean, 
But  I  shall  be  good  health  to  you  nevertheless, 
And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood. 

Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first  keep  encouraged, 
Missing  me  one  place  search  another, 
I  stop  somewhere  waiting  for  you. 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM 


TO  THE  GARDEN  THE  WORLD 

To  the  garden  the  world  anew  ascending, 

Potent  mates,  daughters,  sons,  preluding, 

The  love,  the  life  of  their  bodies,  meaning  and  being, 

Curious  here  behold  my  resurrection  after  slumber, 

The  revolving  cycles  in  their  wide  sweep  having  brought  me 

again, 

Amorous,  mature,  all  beautiful  to  me,  all  wondrous, 
My  limbs  and  the  quivering  fire  that  ever  plays  through  them, 

for  reasons,  most  wondrous, 
Existing  I  peer  and  penetrate  still, 
Content  with  the  present,  content  with  the  past, 
By  my  side  or  back  of  me  Eve  following, 
Or  in  front,  and  I  following  her  just  the  same. 

FROM  PENT-UP  ACHING  RIVERS 

FROM  pent-up  aching  rivers, 

From  that  of  myself  without  which  I  were  nothing, 

From  what  I  am  determin'd  to  make  illustrious,  even  if   I 

stand  sole  among  men, 

From  my  own  voice  resonant,  singing  the  phallus, 
Singing  the  song  of  procreation, 
Singing  the  need  of  superb  children  and  therein  superb  grown 

people, 

Singing  the  muscular  urge  and  the  blending, 
Singing  the  bedfellow's  song   (O  resistless  yearning! 
O  for  any  and  each  the  body  correlative  attracting! 
O  for  you,  whoever  you  are,  your  correlative  body !  O  it,  morw 

than  all  else,  you  delighting!) 

From  the  hungry  gnaw  that  eats  me  night  and  day, 
From  native  moments,  from  bashful  pains,  singing  them, 
Seeking  something  yet  un found  though  I  have  diligently  sought 

it  many  a  long  year, 

79 


80  Leaves  of  Grass 

Singing  the  true  song  of  the  soul  fitful  at  random, 

Renascent   with  grossest  Nature  or   among  animals, 

Of  that,  of  them  and  what  goes  with  them  my  poems  informing, 

Of  the  smell  of  apples  and  lemons,  of  the  pairing  of  birds, 

Of  the  wet  woods,  of  the  lapping  of  waves, 

Of  the  mad  pushes  of  waves  upon  the  land,  I  them  chanting, 

The  overture  lightly  sounding,  the  strain  anticipating, 

The  welcome  nearness,  the  sight  of  the  perfect  body, 

The  swimmer  swimming  naked  in  the  bath,  or  motionless  on 

his  back  lying  and  floating, 
The  female  form  approaching,  I  pensive,  love-flesh  tremulous, 

aching, 

The  divine  list  for  myself  or  you  or  for  any  one  making, 
The  face,  the  limbs,  the  index  from  head  to  foot,  and  what  it 

arouses, 

The  mystic  deliria,  the  madness  amorous,  the  utter  abandon 
ment, 

(Hark  close  and  still  what  I  now  whisper  to  you, 
I  love  you,  O  you  entirely  possess  me, 
O  that  you  and  I  escape  from  the  rest  and  go  utterly  off,  free 

and  lawless, 
Two  hawks  in  the  air,  two  fishes  swimming  in  the  sea  not 

more  lawless  than  we;) 
The    furious    storm    through    me    careering,    I    passionately 

trembling. 
The  oath  of  the  inseparableness  of  two  together,  of  the  woman 

that  loves  me  and  whom  I  love  more  than  my  life,  that 

oath  swearing, 

(O  I  willingly  stake  all  for  you, 
O  let  me  be  lost  if  it  must  be  so! 

O  you  and  I!  what  is  it  to  us  what  the  rest  do  or  think? 
What  is  all  else  to  us?  only  that  we  enjoy  each  other  and 

exhaust  each  other  if  it  must  be  so;) 
From  the  master,  the  pilot  I  yield  the  vessel  to, 
The  general  commanding  me,  commanding  all,  from  him  per 
mission   taking, 
From  time  the  programme  hastening  (I  have  loiter'd  too  long 

as  it  is), 

From  sex,  from  the  warp  and  from  the  woof, 
From  privacy,  from  frequent  repinings  alone, 
From  plenty  of  persons  near  and  yet  the  right  person  not  near, 
From  the  soft  sliding  of   hands   over  me  and   thrusting  of 

ringers  through  my  hair  and  beard, 


Children  of  Adam  89 

All  the  governments,  judges,  gods,   follow'd  persons  of  the 

earth, 
These  are  contain'd  in  sex  as  parts  of  itself  and  justifications 

of  itself. 

Without  shame  the  man  I  like  knows  and  avows  the  delicious- 
ness  of  his  sex, 
Without  shame  the  woman  I  like  knows  and  avows  hers. 

Now  I  will  dismiss  myself  from  impassive  women, 

I  will  go  stay  with  her  who  waits   for  me,  and  with  those 

women  that  are  warm-blooded  and  sufficient  for  me, 
I  see  that  they  understand  me  and  do  not  deny  me, 
I  see  that  they  are  worthy  of  me,  I  will  be  the  robust  husband 

of  those  women. 

They  are  not  one  jot  less  than  I  am, 

They  are  tann'd  in  the  face  by  shining  suns  and  blowing  winds, 
Their  flesh  has  the  old  divine  suppleness  and  strength, 
They  know  how  to  swim,  row,  ride,  wrestle,  shoot,  run,  strike, 

retreat,  advance,  resist,   defend  themselves, 
They  are  ultimate  in  their  own  right — they  are  calm,  clear, 

well  possess'd  of  themselves. 

I  draw  you  close  to  me,  you  women, 

I  cannot  let  you  go,  I  would  do  you  good, 

I  am  for  you,  and  you  are  for  me,  not  only  for  our  own  sake,. 

but  for  others'  sakes, 

Envelop'd  in  you  sleep  greater  heroes  and  bards, 
They  refuse  to  awake  at  the  touch  of  any  man  but  me. 

It  is  I,  you  women,  I  make  my  way, 

I  am  stern,  acrid,  large,  undissuadable,  but  I  love  you, 

I  do  not  hurt  you  any  more  than  is  necessary  for  you, 

I  pour  the  stuff  to  start  sons  and  daughters  fit  for  these  States. 

I  press  with  slow  rude  muscle, 
I  brace  myself  effectually,  I  listen  to  no  entreaties, 
I   dare   not  withdraw   till    I    deposit   what  has   so   long  ac 
cumulated  within  me. 

Through  you  I  drain  the  pent-up  rivers  of  myself, 
In  you  I  wrap  a  thousand  onward  years, 

On  you   I  graft  the  grafts   of   the  best-beloved   of   me  and 
America, 


90  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  drops  I  distil  upon  you  shall  grow  fierce  and  athletic 
girls,  new  artists,  musicians,  and  singers, 

The  babes  I  beget  upon  you  are  to  beget  babes  in  their  turn, 

I  shall  demand  perfect  men  and  women  out  of  my  love- 
spendings, 

I  shall  expect  them  to  interpenetrate  with  others,  as  I  and  you 
interpenetrate  now, 

I  shall  count  on  the  fruits  of  the  gushing  showers  of  them,  as 
I  count  on  the  fruits  of  the  gushing  showers  I  give  now, 

I  shall  look  for  loving  crops  from  the  birth,  life,  death,  immor 
tality,  I  plant  so  lovingly  now. 


SPONTANEOUS  ME 

SPONTANEOUS  me,  Nature, 

The  loving  day,  the  mounting  sun,  the  friend  I  am  happy  with, 
The  arm  of  my  friend's  hanging  idly  over  my  shoulder, 
The  hillside  whiten'd  with  blossoms  of  the  mountain  ash, 
The  same  late  in  autumn,  the  hues  of  red,  yellow,  drab,  purple, 

and  light  and  dark  green, 
The  rich  coverlet  of  the  grass,  animals,  and  birds,  the  private 

untrimm'd  bank,  the  primitive  apples,  the  pebble-stones, 
Beautiful  dripping  fragments,  the  negligent  list  of  one  after 

another  as  I  happen  to  call  them  to  me  or  think  of  them, 
The  real  poems  (what  we  call  poems  being  merely  pictures), 
The  poems  of  the  privacy  of  the  night,  and  of  men  like  me, 
This  poem  drooping  shy  and  unseen  that  I  always  carry,  and 

that  all  men  carry, 
(Know  once  for  all,  avow'd  on  purpose,  wherever  are  men  like 

me,  are  our  lusty  lurking  masculine  poems), 
Love-thoughts,     love-juice,     love-odour,     love-yielding,     love- 
climbers,  and  the  climbing  sap, 

Arms  and  hands  of  love,  lips  of  love,  phallic  thumb  of  love, 
breasts  of  love,  bellies  press'd  and  glued  together  with  love, 
Earth  of  chaste  love,  life  that  is  only  life  after  love, 
The  body  of  my  love,  the  body  of  the  woman  I  love,  the  body 

of  the  man,  the  body  of  the  earth, 
Soft  forenoon  airs  that  blow  from  the  south-west, 
The  hairy  wild-bee  that  murmurs  and  hankers  up  and  down, 
that  gripes  the  full-grown  lady-flower,  curves  upon  her 
with  amorous  firm  legs,  takes  his  will  of  her,  and  holds 
himself  tremulous  and  tight  till  he  is  satisfied; 
The  wet  of  woods  through  the  early  hours, 


Children  of  Adam  91 

Two  sleepers  at  night  lying  close  together  as  they  sleep,  one 

with  an  arm  slanting  down  across  and  below  the  waist  of 

the  other, 
The  smell  of  apples,  aromas   from  crush'd  sage-plant,  mint, 

birch-bark, 
The  boy's  longings,  the  glow  and  pressure  as  he  confides  to  me 

what  he  was  dreaming, 

The  dead  leaf  whirling  its  spiral  whirl  and  falling  still  and  con 
tent  to  the  ground, 

The  no-form'd  stings  that  sights,  people,  objects,  sting  me  with, 
The  hubb'd  sting  of  myself,  stinging  me  as  much  as  it  ever  can 

any  one, 
The  sensitive,  orbic,  underlapp'd  brothers,  that  only  privileged 

feelers  may  be  intimate  where  they  are, 
The  curious  roamer  the  hand  roaming  all  over  the  body,  the 

bashful  withdrawing  of  flesh  where  the  fingers  soothingly 

pause  and  edge  themselves, 
The  limpid  liquid  within  the  young  man, 
The  vex'd  corrosion  so  pensive  and  so  painful, 
The  torment,  the  irritable  tide  that  will  not  be  at  rest, 
The  like  of  the  same  I  feel,  the  like  of  the  same  in  others, 
The   young    man    that    flushes    and    flushes,    and    the    young 

woman  that  flushes  and  flushes, 
The  young  man  that  wakes  deep  at  night,  the  hot  hand  seeking 

to  repress  what  would  master  him, 
The  mystic  amorous  night,  the  strange  half -welcome  pangs, 

visions,  sweats, 
The  pulse  pounding  through  palms  and  trembling  encircling 

ringers,  the  young  man  all  colour'd,  red,  ashamed,  angry  ; 
The  souse  upon  me  of  my  lover  the  sea,  as  I  lie  willing  and 

naked. 
The  merriment  of  the  twin  babes  that  crawl  over  the  grass  In 

the  sun,  the  mother  never  turning  her  vigilant  eyes  from 

them, 
The    walnut-trunk,    the    walnut-husks,    and    the    ripening-   or 

ripen'd  long-round  walnuts, 
The  continence  of  vegetables,  birds,  animals, 
The  consequent  meanness  of  me  should  I  skulk  or  find  myself 
indecent,  while  birds  and  animals  never  once  skulk  or  find 
themselves  indecent, 

The  great  chastity  of  paternity,  to  match  the  great  chastity  of 
maternity, 


92  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  oath  of  procreation  I  have  sworn,  my  Adamic  and  fresh 

daughters, 
The  greed  that  eats  me  day  and  night  with  hungry  gnaw,  till  I 

saturate  what  shall  produce  boys  to  fill  my  place  when  I 

am  through, 

The  wholesome  relief,  repose,  content, 
And  this  bunch  pluck'd  at  random  from  myself, 
It  has  done  its  work — I  toss  it  carelessly  to  fall  where  it  may. 

ONE  HOUR  TO  MADNESS  AND  JOY 

ONE  hour  to  madness  and  joy!  O  furious!  O  confine  me  not! 

(What  is  this  that  frees  me  so  in  storms? 

What  do  my  shouts  amid  lightnings  and  raging  winds  mean?) 

O  to  drink  the  mystic  deliria  deeper  than  any  other  man! 

0  savage  and  tender  achings!   (I  bequeath  them  to  you  my 

children, 

1  tell  them  to  you,  for  reasons,  O  bridegroom  and  bride.) 

O  to  be  yielded  to  you  whoever  you  are,  and  you  to  be  yielded 

to  me  in  defiance  of  the  world ! 
O  to  return  to  Paradise !  O  bashful  and  feminine ! 
O  to  draw  you  to  me,  to  plant  on  you  for  the  first  time  the  lips 

of  a  determin'd  man. 

O  the  puzzle,  the  thrice-tied  knot,  the  deep  and  dark  pool,  all 

untied  and  illumin'd! 

O  to  speed  where  there  is  space  enough  and  air  enough  at  last ! 
To  be  absolv'd  from  previous  ties  and  conventions,  I   from 

mine  and  you  from  yours ! 
To  find  a  new  unthought-of  nonchalance  with   the  best  of 

Nature ! 

To  have  the  gag  remov'd  from  one's  mouth! 
To  have  the  feeling  to-day  or  any  day  I  am  sufficient  as  I  am. 

O  something  unprov'd!  something  in  a  trance! 

To  escape  utterly  from  others'  anchors  and  holds! 

To  drive  free!  to  love  free!  to  dash  reckless  and  dangerous! 

To  court  destruction  with  taunts,  with  invitations! 

To  ascend,  to  leap  to  the  heavens  of  the  love  indicated  to  me ! 

To  rise  thither  with  my  inebriate  soull 

To  be  lost  if  it  must  be  so! 


Children  of  Adam  93" 

To  feed  the  remainder  of  life  with  one  hour  of  fulness  and 

freedom ! 
With  one  brief  hour  of  madness  and  joy. 

OUT  OF  THE  ROLLING  OCEAN  THE  CROWD 

OUT  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop  gently  to  me, 

Whispering,  /  love  you,  before  long  I  die, 

I  have  travell'd  a  long  way  merely  to  look  on  you  to  touch  you, 

For  I  could  not  die  till  I  once  look'd  on  you, 

For  I  fear'd  I  might  afterward  lose  you. 

Now  we  have  met,  we  have  look'd,  we  are  safe, 

Return  in  peace  to  the  ocean  my  love, 

I  too  am  part  of  that  ocean,  my  love,  we  are  not  so  much 

separated, 

Behold  the  great  rondure,  the  cohesion  of  all,  how  perfect! 
But  as  for  me,  for  you,  the  irresistible  sea  is  to  separate  us, 
As  for  an  hour  carrying  us  diverse,  yet  cannot  carry  us  diverse 

forever ; 
Be  not  impatient — a  little  space — know  you  I  salute  the  air,. 

the  ocean  and  the  land, 
Every  day  at  sundown  for  your  dear  sake,  my  love. 

AGES  AND  AGES  RETURNING  AT  INTERVALS 

AGES  and  ages  returning  at  intervals, 
Undestroy'd,  wandering  immortal, 

Lusty,  phallic,  with  the  potent  original  loins,  perfectly  sweet, 
I,  chanter  of  Adamic  songs, 

Through  the  new  garden  the  West,  the  great  cities  calling, 
Deliriate,  thus  prelude  what  is  generated,  offering  these,  offer 
ing  myself, 

Bathing  myself,  bathing  my  songs  in  Sex, 
Offspring  of  my  loins. 

WE  TWO,  HOW  LONG  WE  WERE  FOOL'D 

WE  two,  how  long  we  were  fool'd, 

Now  transmuted,  we  swiftly  escape  as  Nature  escapes, 

We   are    Nature,    long   have    we   been    absent,    but   now    we 

return, 

We  become  plants,  trunks,   foliage,   roots,  bark, 
We  are  bedded  in  the  ground,  we  are  rocks, 
We  are  oaks,  we  grow  in  the  openings  side  by  side, 


94  Leaves  of  Grass 

We  browse,  we  are  two  among  the  wild  herds  spontaneous  as 

any, 

We  are  two  fishes  swimming  in  the  sea  together, 
We  are  what  locust  blossoms  are,  we  drop  scent  around  lanes 

mornings  and  evenings, 

We  are  also  the  coarse  smut  of  beasts,  vegetables,  minerals, 
We  are  two  predatory  hawks,  we  soar  above  and  look  down, 
We  are  two  resplendent  suns,  we  it  is  who  balance  ourselves 

orbic  and  stellar,  we  are  as  two  comets, 
We  prowl  fang'd  and  four-footed  in  the  woods,  we  spring  on 

prey, 

We  are  two  clouds  forenoons  and  afternoons  driving  overhead, 
We  are  seas  mingling,  we  are  two  of  those  cheerful  waves  roll 
ing  over  each  other  and  interwetting  each  other, 
We  are  what  the  atmosphere  is,  transparent,  receptive,  pervious, 

impervious, 
We  are  snow,  rain,  cold,  darkness,  we  are  each  product  and 

influence  of  the  globe, 
We  have  circled  and  circled  till  we  have  arrived  home  again, 

we  two, 
We  have  voided  all  but  freedom  and  all  but  our  own  joy. 

O  HYMEN!  O  HYMENEE! 

O  HYMEN  !  O  hymenee!  why  do  you  tantalise  me  thus? 

0  why  sting  me  for  a  swift  moment  only? 

Why  can  you  not  continue?  O  why  do  you  now  cease? 
Is  it  because  if  you  continued  beyond  the  swift  moment  you 
would  soon  certainly  kill  me? 

I  AM  HE  THAT  ACHES  WITH  LOVE 

1  AM  he  that  aches  with  amorous  love; 

Does  the  earth  gravitate?  does  not  all  matter,  aching,  attract 

all  matter? 
So  the  body  of  me  to  all  I  meet  or  know. 

NATIVE  MOMENTS 

NATIVE  moments — when  you  come  upon  me — ah,  you  are  here 

now, 

Give  me  now  libidinous  joys  only, 
<}ive  me  the  drench  of  my  passions,  give  me  life  coarse  "Aid 

rank, 


Children  of  Adam  95 

To-day  I  go  consort  with  Nature's  darlings,  to-night  too, 
I  am  for  those  who  believe  in  loose  delights,  I  share  the  mid 
night  orgies  of  young  men, 

I  dance  with  the  dancers  and  drink  with  the  drinkers, 
The  echoes  ring  with  our  indecent  calls,  I  pick  out  some  low 

person  for  my  dearest  friend, 
He  shall  be  lawless,  rude,  illiterate,  he  shall  be  one  condemn'd 

by  others  for  deeds  done, 

I  will  play  a  part  no  longer,  why  should  I  exile  myself  from 
my  companions? 

0  you  shunn'd  persons,  I  at  least  do  not  shun  you, 

1  come  forthwith  in  your  midst,  I  will  be  your  poet, 
I  will  be  more  to  you  than  to  any  of  the  rest. 


ONCE  I  PASS'D  THROUGH  A  POPULOUS  CITY 

ONCE  I  pass'd  through  a  populous  city  imprinting  my  bra-in  for 

future  use  with  its  shows,  architecture,  customs,  traditions, 
Yet  now  of  all  that  city  I  remember  only  a  woman  I  casually 

met  there  who  detain'd  me  for  love  of  me, 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  we  were  together — all  else  has 

long  been  forgotten  by  me, 
I  remember,  I  say,  only  that  woman  who  passionately  clung 

to  me, 

Again  we  wander,  we  love,  we  separate  again, 
Again  she  holds  me  by  the  hand,  I  must  not  go, 
I  see  her  close  beside  me  with  silent  lips  sad  and  tremulous. 


I  HEARD  YOU  SOLEMN-SWEET  PIPES 
OF  THE  ORGAN 

I  HEARD  you  solemn-sweet  pipes  of  the  organ  as  last  Sunday 

morn  I  pass'd  the  church, 
Winds  of  autumn,  as  I  walk'd  the  woods  at  dusk  I  heard  your 

long-stretch'd  sighs  up  above  so  mournful, 
I  heard  the  perfect  Italian  tenor  singing  at  the  opera,  I  heard 

the  soprano  in  the  midst  of  the  quartet  singing; 
Heart  of  my  love!  you  too  I  heard  murmuring  low  through 

one  of  the  wrists  around  my  head, 
Heard  the  pulse  of  you  when  all  was  still  ringing  little  bells 

last  night  under  my  ear. 


96  Leaves  of  Grass 

FACING  WEST  FROM   CALIFORNIA'S   SHORES 

FACING  west  from  California's  shores, 

Inquiring,  tireless,  seeking  what  is  yet  unfound, 

I,  a  child,  very  old,  over  waves,  towards  the  house  of  maternity, 

the  land  of  migrations,  look  afar, 
Look  off   the  shores  of   my  Western   sea,   the   circle  almost 

circled  ; 
For  starting  westward   from  Hindustan,   from  the  vales  of 

Kashmere, 
From  Asia,  from  the  north,  from  the  God,  the  sage,  and  the 

hero, 
From  the  south,  from  the  flowery  peninsulas  and  the  spice 

islands, 

Long  having  wander'd  since,  round  the  earth  having  wander'd, 
Now  I  face  home  again,  very  pleas'd  and  joyous, 
(But  where  is  what  I  started  for  so  long  ago? 
And  why  is  it  yet  unfound?) 

AS  ADAM  EARLY  IN  THE  MORNING 

As  Adam  early  in  the  morning, 

Walking  forth   from  the  bower  refresh'd  with  sleep, 

Behold  me  where  I  pass,  hear  my  voice,  approach, 

Touch  me,  touch  the  palm  of  your  hand  to  my  body  as  I  pass, 

Be  not  afraid  of  my  body. 


CALAMUS 


IN  PATHS  UNTRODDEN       . 

IN  paths  untrodden, 

In  the  growth  by  margins  of  pond-waters, 

Escaped  from  the  life  that  exhibits  itself, 

From  all  the  standards  hitherto  publish'd,  from  the  pleasures, 
profits,  conformities, 

Which  too  long  I  was  offering  to  feed  my  soul, 

Clear  to  me  now  standards  not  yet  publish'd,  clear  to  me  that 
my  soul, 

That  the  soul  of  the  man  I  speak  of  rejoices  in  comrades, 

Here  by  myself  away  from  the  clank  of  the  world, 

Tallying  and  talk'd  to  here  by  tongues  aromatic, 

No  longer  abash'd  (for  in  this  secluded  spot  I  can  respond  as 
I  would  not  dare  elsewhere), 

Strong  upon  me  the  life  that  does  not  exhibit  itself,  yet  con 
tains  all  the  rest, 

Resolv'd  to  sing  no  songs  to-day  but  those  of  manly  attach 
ment, 

Projecting  them  along  that  substantial  life, 

Bequeathing  hence  types  of  athletic  love, 

Afternoon  this  delicious  Ninth-month  in  my  forty-first  year, 

1  proceed  for  all  who  are  or  have  been  young  men, 

To  tell  the  secret  of  my  nights  and  days, 

To  celebrate  the  need  of  comrades. 

SCENTED  HERBAGE  OF  MY  BREAST 

SCENTED  herbage  of  my  breast, 

Leaves  from  you  I  gleam,  I  write,  to  be  perused  best  after 
wards, 

Tomb-leaves,  body-leaves  growing  up  above  me  above  death, 

Perennial  roots,  tall  leaves,  O  the  winter  shall  not  freeze  you, 
delicate  leaves, 

Every  year  shall  you  bloom  again,  out  from  where  you  retired 
you  shall  emerge  again; 

97 


98  Leaves  of  Grass 

O  I  do  not  know  whether  many  passing  by  will  discover  you  or 

inhale  your  faint  odour,  but  I  believe  a  few  will ; 
O  slender  leaves !  O  blossoms  of  my  blood  1  I  permit  you  to 

tell  in  your  own  way  of  the  heart  that  is  under  you, 
O  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  there  underneath  yourselves, 

you  are  not  happiness, 
You  are  often  more  bitter  than  I  can  bear,  you  burn  and  sting 

me, 
Yet  you  are  beautiful  to  me  you  faint-tinged  roots,  you  make 

me  think  of  death, 
Death  is  beautiful  from  you  (what  indeed  is  finally  beautiful 

except  death  and  love?) 

0  I  think  it  is  not  for  life  I  am  chanting  here  my  chant  of 

lovers,  I  think  it  must  be  for  death, 

For  how  calm,  how  solemn  it  grows  to  ascend  to  the  atmos 
phere  of  lovers, 

Death  or  life  I  am  then  indifferent,  my  soul  declines  to  prefer, 

(I  am  not  sure  but  the  high  soul  of  lovers  welcomes  death  most), 

Indeed,  O  death,  I  think  now  these  leaves  mean  precisely  the 
same  as  you  mean, 

Grow  up  taller  sweet  leaves  that  I  may  see!  grow  up  out  of 
my  breast  1 

Spring  away  from  the  conceal'd  heart  there ! 

Do  not  fold  yourself  so  in  your  pink-tinged  roots'  timid  leaves  1 

Do  not  remain  down  there  so  ashamed,  herbage  of  my  breast ! 

Come,  I  am  determin'd  to  unbare  this  broad  breast  of  mine,  I 
have  long  enough  stifled  and  choked; 

Emblematic  and  capricious  blades  I  leave  you,  now  you  serve 
me  not, 

1  will  say  what  I  have  to  say  by  itself, 

I  will  sound  myself  and  comrades  only,  I  will  never  again 

utter  a  call  only  their  call, 

I  will  rise  with  it  immortal  reverberations  through  the  States, 
I  will  give  an  example  to  lovers  to  take  permanent  shape  and 

will  through  the  States, 

Through  me  shall  the  words  be  said  to  make  death  exhilarating, 
Give  me  your  tone  therefore,  O  death,  that  I  may  accord  with  it, 
Give  me  yourself,  for  I  see  that  you  belong  to  me  now  above 

all,  and  are   folded   inseparably  together,  you  love  and 

death  are, 
Nor  will  I  allow  you  to  balk  me  any  more  with  what  I  was 

calling  life, 
For  now  it  is  conveyed  to  me  that  you  are  the  purports  essential, 


Calamus  99 

That  you  hick  in  these  shifting  forms  of  life,  for  reasons,  and 

that  they  are  mainly  for  you, 

That  you  beyond  them  come  forth  to  remain,  the  real  reality, 
That  behind  the  mask  of   materials   you   patiently   wait,  no 

matter  how  long, 

That  you  will  one  day  perhaps  take  control  of  all, 
That  you  will  perhaps  dissipate  this  entire  show  of  appearance, 
That  may-be  you  are  what  it  is  all  for,  but  it  does  not  last  so 

very  long, 
But  you  will  last  very  long. 

WHOEVER  YOU  ARE  HOLDING  ME  NOW  IN  HAND 

WHOEVER  you  are  holding  me  now  in  hand, 

Without  one  thing  all  will  be  useless, 

I  give  you  fair  warning  before  you  attempt  me  further, 

I  am  not  what  you  supposed,  but  far  different. 

Who  is  he  that  would  become  my  follower? 

Wrho  would  sign  himself  a  candidate  for  my  affections? 

The  way  is  suspicious,  the  result  uncertain,  perhaps  destructive, 
You  would  have  to  give  up  all  else,  I  alone  would  expect  to  be 

your  sole  and  exclusive  standard, 

Your  novitiate  would  even  then  be  long  and  exhausting, 
The  whole  past  theory  of  your  life  and  all  conformity  to  the 

lives  around  you  would  have  to  be  abandon'd, 
Therefore    release    me    now    before    troubling    yourself    any 

further,  let  go  your  hand  from  my  shoulders, 
Put  me  down  and  depart  on  your  way. 

Or  else  by  stealth  in  some  wood  for  trial, 

Or  back  of  a  rock  in  the  open  air, 

(For  in  any  roof'd  room  of  a  house  I  emerge  not,  nor  in 

company, 
And  in  libraries  I  lie  as  one  dumb,  a  gawk,  or  unborn,  or 

dead), 
But  just  possibly  with  you  on  a  high  hill,  first  watching  lest  any 

person  for  miles  around  approach  unawares, 
Or  possibly  with  you  sailing  at  sea,  or  on  the  beach  of  the  sea 

or  some  quiet  island, 

Here  to  put  your  lips  upon  mine  I  permit  you, 
With  the  comrade's  long-dwelling  kiss  or  the  new  husband's 

kiss, 
For  I  am  the  new  husband  and  I  am  the  comrade. 


ioo  Leaves  of  Grass 

Or  if  you  will,  thrusting  me  beneath  your  clothing, 
Where  I  may  feel  the  throbs  of  your  heart  or  rest  upon  your  hip, 
Carry  me  when  you  go  forth  over  land  or  sea ; 
For  thus  merely  touching  you  is  enough,  is  best, 
And  thus  touching  you  would  I  silently  sleep  and  be  carried 
eternally. 

But  these  leaves  conning  you  con  at  peril, 

For  these  leaves  and  me  you  will  not  understand, 

They  will  elude  you  at  first  and  still  more  afterward,  I  will 

certainly  elude  you, 
Even  while  you  should  think  you  had  unquestionably  caught 

me,  behold! 
Already  you  see  I  have  escaped  from  you. 

For  it  is  not  for  what  I  have  put  into  it  that  I  have  written 

this  book, 

Nor  is  it  by  reading  it  you  will  acquire  it, 
Nor  do  those  know  me  best  who  admire  me  and  vauntingly 

praise  me, 
Nor  will  the  candidates  for  my  love  (unless  at  most  a  very 

few)   prove  victorious, 
Nor  will  my  poems  do  good  only,  they  will  do  just  as  much 

evil,  perhaps  more, 
For  all  is  useless  without  that  which  you  may  guess  at  many 

times  and  not  hit,  that  which  I  hinted  at; 
Therefore  release  me  and  depart  on  your  way. 

FOR  YOU,  O  DEMOCRACY 

COME,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble, 

I  will  make  the  most  splendid  race  the  sun  ever  shone  upon, 

I  will  make  divine  magnetic  lands, 

With  the  love  of  comrades, 
With  the  life-long  love  of  comrades. 

I  will  plant  companionship  thick  as  trees  along  the  rivers  of 
America,  and  along  the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  and  all 
over  the  prairies, 

I  will  make  inseparable  cities  with  their  arms  about  each 
other's  necks, 

By  the   love  of   comrades, 

By  the  manly  love  of  comrades. 

For  you  these  from  me,  O  Democracy,  to  serve  you,  ma  f emmc ! 
For  you,  for  you  I  am  trilling  these  songs. 


Calamus  101 

THESE  I  SINGING  IN   SPRING 

THESE  I  singing  in  spring  collect   for  lovers, 

(For  who  but  I  should  understand  lovers  and  all  their  sorrow 

and  joy? 

And  who  but  I  should  be  the  poet  of  comrades?) 
Collecting  I  traverse  the  garden  the  world,  but  soon  I  pass  the 

gates, 
Now  along  the  pond-side,  now  wading  in  a  little,  fearing  not 

the  wet, 
Now  by  the  post-and-rail  fences  where  the  old  stones  thrown 

there,  picked  from  the  fields,  have  accumulated, 
(Wild-flowers    and   vines   and    weeds   come   up   through    the 

stones  and  partly  cover  them,  beyond  these  I  pass), 
Far,  far  in  the  forest,  or  sauntering  later  in  summer,  before  I 

think  where  I  go, 
Solitary,  smelling  the  earthy  smell,  stopping  now  and  then  in 

the  silence, 

Alone  I  had  thought,  yet  soon  a  troop  gathers  around  me, 
Some  walk  by  my  side  and  some  behind,  and  some  embrace 

my  arms  or  neck, 
They  the  spirits  of  dear  friends  dead  or  alive,  thicker  they 

come,  a  great  crowd,  and  I  in  the  middle, 
Collecting,   dispensing,    singing,    there    I    wander    with   them, 
Plucking   something   for   tokens,   tossing  toward   whoever    is 

near  me, 

Here,  lilac,  with  a  branch  of  pine, 

Here,  out  of  my  pocket,  some  moss  which  I  pull'd  off  a  live- 
oak  in  Florida  as  it  hung  trailing  down, 
Here,  some  pinks  and  laurel  leaves,  and  a  handful  of  sage, 
And  here  what  I  now  draw  from  the  water,  wading  in  the 

pond-side, 
(O  here  I  last  saw  him  that  tenderly  loves  me,  and  returns 

again  never  to  separate  from  me, 
And  this,  O  this  shall  henceforth  be  the  token  of  comrades, 

this    calamus-root    shall, 
Interchange   it  youths   with   each    other!   let   none   render   it 

back!) 

And  twigs  of  maple  and  a  bunch  of  wild  orange  and  chestnut, 
And   stems   of   currants   and   plum-blows,   and   the  aromatic 

cedar, 

These  I  compass'd  around  by  a  thick  cloud  of  spirits, 
Wandering,   point   to    or    touch    as    I    pass,    or   throw    them 
loosely  from  me. 


IO2  Leaves  of  Grass 

Indicating  to  each  one  what  he  shall  have,  giving  something 

to  each) 
But  what  I  drew  from  the  water  by  the  pond-side,  that  I 

reserve, 
I  will  give  of  it,  but  only  to  them  that  love  as  I  myself  am 

capable  of  loving. 

NOT  HEAVING  FROM  MY  RIBB'D  BREAST  ONLY 

NOT  heaving  from   my  ribb'd  breast  only, 

Not  in  sighs  at  night  in  rage  dissatisfied  with  myself, 

Not  in  those  long-drawn,  ill-supprest   sighs, 

Not  in  many  an  oath  and  promise  broken, 

Not  in  my  wilful  and  savage  soul's  volition, 

Not  in  the  subtle  nourishment  of  the  air, 

Not  in  this  beating  and  pounding  at  my  temples  and  wrists, 

Not  in  the  curious  systole  and  diastole  within  which  will  one 

day  cease, 

Not  in  many  a  hungry  wish  told  to  the  skies  only, 
Not  in  cries,  laughter,  defiances,  thrown  from  me  when  alone 

far  in  the  wilds, 

Not  in  husky  pantings  through  clinched  teeth, 
Not    in    sounded    and    resounded    words,    chattering    words, 

echoes,  dead  words, 

Not  in  the  murmurs  of  my  dreams  while  I  sleep, 
Nor  the  other  murmurs  of  these  incredible  dreams  of  every 

day, 
Nor  in  the  limbs  and  senses  of  my  body  that  take  you  and 

dismiss    you    continually — not    there, 

Not  in  any  or  all  of  them,  O  adhesiveness  !  O  pulse  of  my  life ! 
Need  I  that  you  exist  and  show  yourself  any  more  than  in 

these    songs. 

OF  THE  TERRIBLE  DOUBT  OF  APPEARANCES 

OF  the  terrible  doubt  of  appearances, 
Of  the  uncertainty  after  all,  that  we  may  be  deluded, 
That  may-be  reliance  and  hope  are  but  speculations  after  all, 
That  may-be  identity  beyond  the  grave  is   a  beautiful  fable  only, 
May-be  the  things  I  perceive,  the  animals,  plants,  men,  hills, 

shining  and  flowing  waters, 
The  skies  of  day  and  night,  colours,  densities,  forms,  may-be 

these  are    (as  doubtless  they  are)    only  apparitions,   and 

the  real  something  has  yet  to  be  known, 


Calamus  103 

(How  often  they  dart  out  of  themselves  as  if  to  confound  me 
and  mock  me ! 

How  often  I  think  neither  I  know,  nor  any  man  knows, 
aught  of  them), 

May-be  seeming  to  me  what  they  are  (as  doubtless  they  in 
deed  but  seem)  as  from  my  present  point  of  view,  and 
might  prove  (as  of  course  they  would)  nought  of  what 
they  appear,  or  nought  anyhow,  from  entirely  changed 
points  of  view; 

To  me  these  and  the  like  of  these  are  curiously  answer'd  by 
my  lovers,  my  dear  friends, 

When  he  whom  I  love  travels  with  me  or  sits  a  long  while 
holding  me  by  the  hand, 

When  the  subtle  air,  the  impalpable,  the  sense  that  words  and 
reason  hold  not,  surround  us  and  pervade  us, 

Then  I  am  charged  with  untold  and  untellable  wisdom,  I  am 
silent,  I  require  nothing  further, 

I  cannot  answer  the  question  of  appearances  or  that  of 
identity  beyond  the  grave, 

But  I  walk  or  sit  indifferent,  I  am  satisfied, 

He  ahold  of  my  hand  has  completely  satisfied  me. 

THE  BASE  OF  ALL  METAPHYSICS 

AND  now,  gentlemen, 

A  word  I  give  to  remain  in  your  memories  and  minds, 

As  base  and  finale  too  for  all  metaphysics. 

(So  to  the  students  the  old  professor, 
At  the  close  of  his  crowded  course.) 

Having  studied  the  new  and  antique,  the  Greek  and  Germanic 

systems, 
Kant  having   studied   and  stilted,   Fichte  and    Schelling  and 

Hegel, 

Stated  the  lore  of  Plato,  and  Socrates  greater  than  Plato, 
And  greater  than   Socrates  sought  and  stated,  Christ  divine 

having  studied  long, 

I  see  reminiscent  to-day  those  Greek  and  Germanic  systems, 
See  the  philosophies  all,  Christian  churches  and  tenets  see. 
Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see,  and  underneath  Christ 

the  divine  I  see, 
The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the  attraction  of  friend 

to  friend, 


IO4  Leaves  of  Grass 

Of    the    well-married    husband    and    wife,    of    children    and 

parents, 
Of  city  for  city  and  land  for  land. 

RECORDERS  AGES   HENCE 

RECORDERS  ages  hence, 

Come,   I  will  take  you  down  underneath  this  impassive  ex 
terior,  I  will  tell  you  what  to  say  of  me, 
Publish  my  name  and  hang  up  my  picture  as  that  of   the 

tenderest  lover, 
The  friend  the  lover's  portrait,  of  whom  his  friend  his  lover 

was  fondest, 
Who  was  not  proud  of  his  songs,  but  of  the  measureless  ocean 

of  love  within  him,  and  freely  pour'd  it  forth, 
Who  often  walk'd  lonesome  walks  thinking  of  his  dear  friends, 

his  lovers, 
Who  pensive  away  from  one  he  lov'd  often  lay  sleepless  and 

dissatisfied  at  night, 
Who  knew  too  well  the  sick,  sick  dread  lest  the  one  he  lov'd 

might  secretly  be  indifferent  to  him, 
Whose  happiest  days  were  far  away  through  fields,  in  woods, 

on  hills,  he  and  another  wandering  hand  in  hand,  they 

twain  apart  from  other  men, 
Who  oft  as  he  saunterd  the  streets  curv'd  with  his  arm  the 

shoulder  of  his  friend,  while  the  arm  of  his  friend  rested 

upon  him  also. 

WHEN  I  HEARD  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  DAY 

WHEN  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  how  my  name  had  been 

receiv'd  with  plaudits   in  the  capitol,   still   it  was  not  a 

happy  night  for  me  that  follow'd, 
And    else   when    I    carous'd,    or    when    my    plans    were    ac- 

complish'd,  still  I  was  not  happy, 
But  the  day  when  I  rose  at  dawn  from  the  bed  of  perfect 

health,  ref resh'd,  singing,  inhaling  the  ripe  breath  of  autumn, 
When  I  saw  the  full  moon  in  the  west  grow  pale  and  disappear 

in  the  morning  light, 
When  I  wander'd  alone  over  the  beach,  and  undressing  bathed, 

laughing  with  the  cool  waters,  and  saw  the  sun  rise, 
And  when  I  thought  how  my  dear  friend,  my  lover,  was  on 

his  way  coming,  O  then  I  was  happy, 


Calamus  105 

0  then  each  breath  tasted  sweeter,  and  all  that  day  my  food 

nourish'd  me  more,  and  the  beautiful  day  pass'd  well, 
And  the  next  came  with  equal  joy,  and  with  the  next  at  eve 
ning  came  my  friend, 

And  that  night  while  all  was  still  I  heard  the  waters  roll 
slowly  continually  up  the  shores, 

1  heard  the  hissing  rustle  of  the  liquid  and  sands  as  directed 

to  me  whispering  to  congratulate  me, 

For  the  one  I  love  most  lay  sleeping  by  me  under  the  same 
cover  in  the  cool  night, 

In  the  stillness  in  the  autumn  moonbeams  his  face  was  in 
clined  toward  me, 

And  his  arm  lay  lightly  around  my  breast — and  that  night  I 
was  happy. 

ARE  YOU  THE  NEW  PERSON  DRAWN  TOWARD  ME? 

ARE  you  the  new  person  drawn  toward  me? 

To  begin  with,  take  warning,  I  am  surely  far  different  from 
what  you  suppose ; 

Do  you  suppose  you  will  find   in  me  your  ideal? 

Do  you  think  it  so  easy  to  have  me  become  your  lover? 

Do  you  think  the  friendship  of  me  would  be  unalloy'd  satis 
faction  ? 

Do  you  think  I  am  trusty  and  faithful? 

Do  you  see  no  further  than  this  facade,  this  smooth  and  tol 
erant  manner  of  me? 

Do  you  suppose  yourself  advancing  on  real  ground  toward  a 
real  heroic  man? 

Have  you  no  thought,  O  dreamer,  that  it  may  be  all  maya, 
illusion? 


ROOTS   AND  LEAVES   THEMSELVES   ALONE 

ROOTS  and  leaves  themselves  alone  are  these, 

Scents  brought  to  men  and  women  from  the  wild  woods  and 

pond-side, 
Breast-sorrel   and   pinks   of   love,    fingers   that   wind   around 

tighter  than  vines, 
Gushes  from  the  throats  of  birds  hid  in  the  foliage  of  trees 

as  the  sun  is  risen, 
Breezes  of  land  and  love  set  from  living  shores  to  you  on  the 

living  sea,  to  you  O  sailors! 


106  Leaves  of  Grass 

Frost-mellow'd  berries  and  Third-month  twigs  offer'd   fresh 

to  young  persons  wandering  out  in  the  fields  when  the 

winter  breaks  up, 

Love-buds  put  before  you  and  within  you  whoever  you  are, 
Buds  to  be  unfolded  on  the  old  terms, 
If  you  bring  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  them  they  will  open 

and  bring  form,  colour,  perfume,  to  you, 
If  you  become  the  aliment   and  the  wet  they   will   become 

flowers,  fruits,  tall  branches,  and  trees. 


NOT  HEAT  FLAMES  UP  AND  CONSUMES 

NOT  heat  flames  up  and  consumes, 

Not  sea-waves  hurry  in  and  out, 

Not  the  air  delicious  and  dry,  the  air  of  ripe  summer,  bears 
lightly  along  white  down-balls  of  myriads  of  seeds, 

Wafted,  sailing  gracefully,  to  drop  where  they  may; 

Not  these,  O  none  of  these  more  than  the  flames  of  me,  con 
suming,  burning  for  his  love  whom  I  love, 

O  none  more  than  I  hurrying  in  and  out ; 

Does  the  tide  hurry,  seeking  something,  and  never  give  up? 
O  I  the  same, 

O  nor  down-balls  nor  perfumes,  nor  the  high  rain-emitting 
clouds,  are  borne  through  the  open  air, 

Any  more  than  my  soul  is  borne  through  the  open  air, 

Wafted  in  all  directions  O  love,  for  friendship,  for  you. 


TRICKLE  DROPS 

TRICKLE  drops !  my  blue  veins  leaving ! 

O  drops  of  mel  trickle,  slow  drops, 

Candid  from  me  falling,  drip,  bleeding  drops, 

From  wounds  made  to  free  you  whence  you  were  prison'd, 

From  my  face,  from  my  forehead  and  lips, 

From  my  breast,  from  within  where  I  was  conceal'd,  press 

forth  red  drops,  confession  drops, 
Stain  every  page,  stain  every  song  I  sing,  every  word  I  say, 

bloody  drops, 

Let  them  know  your  scarlet  heat,  let  them  glisten, 
Saturate  them  with  yourself  all  ashamed  and  wet, 
Glow  upon  all  I  have  written  or  shall  write,  bleeding  drops, 
Let  it  all  be  seen  in  your  light,  blushing  drops. 


Calamus  107 

CITY  OF  ORGIES 

CITY  of  orgies,  walks,  and  joys, 

City  whom  that  I  have  lived  and  sung  in  your  midst  will  one 

day  make  you  illustrious, 
Not  the  pageants  of  you,   not  your   shifting   tableaus,  your 

spectacles,  repay  me, 
Not  the  interminable  rows  of  your  houses,  nor  the  ships  at 

the  wharves, 
Nor  the  processions  in  the  streets,  nor  the  bright  windows  with 

goods  in  them, 
Nor  to  converse  with  learn'd  persons,  or  bear  my  share  in  the 

soiree  or  feast; 
Not  those,  but  as  I  pass,  O  Manhattan,  your   frequent  and 

swift  flash  of  eyes  offering  me  love, 
Offering  response  to  my  own — these  repay  me, 
Lovers,  continual  lovers,  only  repay  me. 

BEHOLD  THIS  SWARTHY  FACE 

BEHOLD  this  swarthy  face,  these  grey  eyes, 

This  beard,  the  white  wool  unclipt  upon  my  neck, 

My  brown  hands  and  the  silent  manner  of  me  without  charm ; 
Yet  comes  one  a  Manhattanese  and  ever  at  parting  kisses  me 

lightly  on  the  lips  with  robust  love, 
And  I  on  the  crossing  of  the  street  or  on  the  ship's  deck  give 

a  kiss  in  return, 

We  observe  that  salute  of  American  comrades  land  and  sea, 
We  are  those  two  natural  and  nonchalant  persons. 

I  SAW  IN  LOUISIANA  A  LIVE-OAK  GROWING 

I  SAW  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing, 

All  alone  stood  it  and  the  moss  hung  down  from  the  branches, 

Without  any  companion  it  grew  there  uttering  joyous  leaves 

of  dark  green, 

And  its  look,  rude,  unbending,  lusty,  made  me  think  of  myself, 
But  I  wonder'd  how  it  could  utter  joyous  leaves  standing  alone, 

there  without  its  friend  near,  for  I  knew  I  could  not, 
And  I  broke  off  a  twig  with  a  certain  number  of  leaves  upon 

it,  and  twined  around  it  a  little  moss, 

And  brought  it  away,  and  I  have  placed  it  in  sight  in  my  room, 
It  is  not  needed  to  remind  me  as  of  my  own  dear  friends 


io8  Leaves  of  Grass 

(For  I  believe  lately  I  think  of  little  else  than  of  them), 

Yet  it  remains  to  me  a  curious  token,  it  makes  me  think  of 
manly  love; 

For  all  that,  and  though  the  live-oak  glistens  there  in  Louis 
iana  solitary  in  a  wide  flat  space, 

Uttering  joyous  leaves  all  its  life  without  a  friend  a  lover  near, 

I  know  very  well  I  could  not. 

TO  A  STRANGER 

PASSING  stranger  1  you  do  not  know  how  longingly  I  look 

upon  you, 
You  must  be  he  I  was  seeking,  or  she  I  was  seeking  (it  comes 

to  me  as  of  a  dream), 

I  have  somewhere  surely  lived  a  life  of  joy  with  you, 
All   is   recall'd  as  we  flit  by  each  other,   fluid,  affectionate, 

chaste,  matured, 

You  grew  up  with  me,  were  a  boy  with  men  or  a  girl  with  me, 
I  ate  with  you  and  slept  with  you,  your  body  has  become  not 

yours  only  nor  left  my  body  mine  only, 
You  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  eyes,  face,  flesh,  as  we  pass, 

you  take  of  my  beard,  breast,  hands,  in  return, 
I  am  not  to  speak  to  you,  I  am  to  think  of  you  when  I  sit 

alone  or  wake  at  night  alone, 

I  am  to  wait,  I  do  not  doubt  I  am  to  meet  you  again, 
I  am  to  see  to  it  that  I  do  not  lose  you. 


THIS  MOMENT  YEARNING  AND  THOUGHTFUL 

THIS  moment  yearning  and  thoughtful  sitting  alone, 

It  seems  to  me  there  are  other  men  in  other  lands  yearning 

and  thoughtful, 
It  seems  to  me  I  can  look  over  and  behold  them  in  Germany, 

Italy,  France,  Spain, 
Or  far,  far  away,  in  China,  or  in  Russia,  or  Japan,  talking 

other  dialects, 
And  it  seems  to  me  if   I   could  know  those  men   I   should 

become  attached  to  them  as  I  do  to  men  in  my  own  lands, 

0  I  know  we  should  be  brethren  and  lovers, 

1  know  I  should  be  happy  with  them. 

I    HEAR   IT    WAS    CHARGED    AGAINST    ME 
I  HEAR  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy   / 
institutions, 


Calamus  109 

But  really  I  am  neither  for  nor  against  institutions, 

(What  indeed  have  I  in  common  with  them?  or  what  with  the 

destruction  of  them?) 
Only  I  will  establish  in  the  Mannahatta  and  in  every  city  of 

these  States  inland  and  seaboard, 
And  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  above  every  keel  little  or 

large  that  dents  the  water, 

Without  edifices  or  rules  or  trustees  or  any  argument, 
The  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  comrades. 


THE  PRAIRIE-GRASS  DIVIDING 

THE  prairie-grass  dividing,  its  special  odour  breathing, 

I  demand  of  it  the  spiritual  corresponding, 

Demand  the  most  copious  and  close  companionship  of  men, 

Demand  the  blades  to  rise  of  words,  acts,  beings, 

Those  of  the  open  atmosphere,  coarse,  sunlit,  fresh,  nutritious, 

Those  that  go  their  own  gait,  erect,  stepping  with  freedom  and 
command,  leading  not  following, 

Those  with  a  never-quell'd  audacity,  those  with  sweet  and 
lusty  flesh  clear  of  taint, 

Those  that  look  carelessly  in  the  faces  of  presidents  and  gover 
nors,  as  to  say,  W ho  are  you? 

Those  of  earth-born  passion,  simple,  never  constrain'd,  never 
obedient, 

Those  of  inland  America. 


WHEN    I    PERUSE   THE    CONQUER'D    FAME 

WHEN  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  heroes  and  the  victories 
of  mighty  generals,  I  do  not  envy  the  generals, 

Nor  the  President  in  his  presidency,  nor  the  rich  in  his  great 
house, 

But  when  I  hear  of  the  brotherhood  of  lovers,  how  it  was 
with  them, 

How  together  through  life,  through  dangers,  odium,  unchang 
ing,  long  and  long, 

Through  youth  and  through  middle  and  old  age,  how  unfalter 
ing,  how  affectionate  and  faithful  they  were, 

Then  I  am  pensive — I  hastily  walk  away  fill'd  with  the  bitter 
est  envy. 


;i  io  Leaves  of  Grass 

WE  TWO  BOYS  TOGETHER  CLINGING 

WE  two  boys  together  clinging, 

One  the  other  never  leaving, 

Up  and  down  the  roads  going,  North  and  South  excursions 
making, 

Power  enjoying,  elbows  stretching,  fingers  clutching, 

Arm'd  and  fearless,  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  loving, 

No  law  less  than  ourselves  owning,  sailing,  soldiering,  thiev 
ing,  threatening, 

Misers,  menials,  priests  alarming,  air  breathing,  water  drink 
ing,  on  the  turf  of  the  sea-beach  dancing, 

Cities  wrenching,  ease  scorning,  statutes  mocking,  feebleness 
chasing, 

Fulfilling  our  foray. 

A  PROMISE  TO  CALIFORNIA 

A  PROMISE  to  California, 

Or  inland  to  the  great  pastoral  Plains,  and  on  to  Puget  Sound 

and  Oregon; 
Sojourning  east  a  while  longer,  soon  I  travel  toward  you,  to 

remain,  to  teach  robust  American  love, 
For  I  know  very  well  that  I  and  robust  love  belong  among 

you,  inland,  and  along  the  Western  sea ; 
For  these  States  tend  inland  and  toward  the  Western  sea,  and 

I  will  also. 

HERE  THE  FRAILEST  LEAVES  OF  ME 

HERE  the  frailest  leaves  of  me  and  yet  my  strongest  lasting, 
Here  I  shade  and  hide  my  thoughts,  I  myself  do  not  expose 

them, 
And  yet  they  expose  me  more  than  all  my  other  poems. 

NO   LABOUR-SAVING  MACHINE 

No  labour-saving  machine, 

Nor  discovery  have  I  made, 

Nor  will  I  be  able  to  leave  behind  me  any  wealthy  bequest  to 

found  a  hospital  or  library, 

Nor  reminiscence  of  any  deed  of  courage  for  America, 
Nor  literary  success  nor  intellect,  nor  book  for  the  book-shelf, 
But  a  few  carols  vibrating  through  the  air  I  leave, 
For  comrades  and 


Calamus  1 1 1 

A  GLIMPSE 

A  GLIMPSE  though  an  interstice  caught, 

Of  a  crowd  of  workmen  and  drivers  in  a  bar-room  around 
the  stove  late  of  a  winter  night,  and  I  unremark'd  seated 
in  a  corner, 

Of  a  youth  who  loves  me  and  whom  I  love,  silently  approach 
ing  and  seating  himself  near,  that  he  may  hold  me  by  the 
hand, 

A  long  while  amid  the  noises  of  coming  and  going,  of  drinking 
and  oath  and  smutty  jest, 

There  we  two,  content,  happy  in  being  together,  speaking 
little,  perhaps  not  a  word. 

A  LEAF   FOR  HAND   IN   HAND 

A  LEAF  for  hand  in  hand; 

You  natural  persons  old  and  young! 

You  on  the  Mississippi  and  on  all  the  branches  and  bayous  of 

the  Mississippi  1 

You  friendly  boatmen  and  mechanics !  you  roughs ! 
You  twain !  and  all  processions  moving  along  the  streets ! 
I  wish  to  infuse  myself  among  you  till  I  see  it  common  for 

you  to  walk  hand  in  hand. 

EARTH,  MY  LIKENESS 

EARTH,  my  likeness, 

Though  you  look  so  impassive,  ample,  and  spheric  there, 

I  now  suspect  that  is  not  all; 

I  now   suspect  there  is   something  fierce  in  you  eligible  to 

burst  forth, 

For  an  athlete  is  enamour'd  of  me,  and  I  of  him, 
But  toward  him  there  is  something  fierce  and  terrible  in  me 

eligible  to  burst  forth, 
I  dare  not  tell  it  in  words,  not  even  in  these  songs. 

I  DREAM'D   IN  A  DREAM 

I  DREAM'D  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the  attacks 

of  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  earth, 
I  dreamed  that  was  the  new  city  of  Friends, 
Nothing  was  greater  there  than  the  quality  of  robust  love,  it 

led  the  rest, 

It  was  seen  every  hour  in  the  actions  of  the  men  of  that  city, 
And  in  all  their  looks  and  words. 


Leaves  of  Grass 

WHAT  THINK  YOU  I  TAKE  MY  PEN  IN  HAND? 

WHAT  think  you  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  record? 

The  battle-ship,  perfect-modell'd,  majestic,  that  I  saw  pass  the 

offing  to-day  under  full  sail? 
The  splendours  of  the  past  day?  or  the  splendour  of  the  night 

that  envelops  me? 
Or  the  vaunted  glory  and  growth  of  the  great  city  spread 

around  me? — no; 
But  merely  of  two  simple  men  I  saw  to-day  on  the  pier  in  the 

midst  of  the  crowd,  parting  the  parting  of  dear  friends, 
The  one  to  remain  hung  on  the  other's  neck  and  passionately 

kiss'd  him, 
While  the  one  to  depart  tightly  prest  the  one  to  remain  in  his 

arms. 

TO  THE  EAST  AND  TO  THE  WEST 

To  the  East  and  to  the  West, 

To  the  man  of  the  Seaside  State  and  of  Pennsylvania, 

To  the  Kanadian  of  the  north,  to  the  Southerner  I  love, 

These  with  perfect  trust  to  depict  you  as  myself,  the  germs 

are  in  all  men, 
I  believe  the  main  purport  of  these  States  is  to  found  a  superb 

friendship,  exalte,  previously  unknown, 
Because  I  perceive  it  waits,  and  has  been  always  waiting,  latent 

in  all  men. 

SOMETIMES  WITH  ONE  I  LOVE 

SOMETIMES  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with  rage  for  fear  I 
effuse  unreturn'd  love, 

But  now  I  think  there  is  no  unreturn'd  love,  the  pay  is  cer 
tain  one  way  or  another, 

(I  loved  a  certain  person  ardently  and  my  love  was  not 
return'd, 

Yet  out  of  that  I  have  written  these  soners). 

TO   A  WESTERN   BOY 

MANY  things  to  absorb  I  teach  to  help  you  become  eleve  of 

mine; 

Yet  if  blood  like  mine  circle  not  in  your  veins, 
If  you  be  not  silently  selected  by  lovers  and  do  not  silently 

select  lovers, 
Of  what  use  is  it  that  you  seek  to  become  eleve  of  mine? 


Calamus  113 

FAST-ANCHOR'D    ETERNAL   O   LOVE! 

FAST-ANCHOR'D  eternal  O  lovel  O  woman  I  love! 

0  bride !  O  wife !  more  resistless  than  I  can  tell,  the  thoughts 

of  you ! 

Then  separate,  as  disembodied  or  another  born, 
Ethereal,  the  last  athletic  reality,  my  consolation, 

1  ascend,  I  float  in  the  regions  of  your  love,  O  man, 

0  sharer  of  my  roving  life. 

AMONG  THE  MULTITUDE 

AMONG  the  men  and  women  the  multitude, 

1  perceive  one  picking  me  out  by  secret  and  divine  signs, 
Acknowledging  none  else,  not  parent,  wife,  husband,  brother, 

child,  any  nearer  than  I  am, 
Some  are  baffled,  but  that  one  is  not — that  one  knows  me. 

Ah,  lover,  and  perfect  equal, 

I  meant  that  you  should  discover  me  so  by  faint  indirections, 

And  I  when  I  meet  you  mean  to  discover  you  by  the  like  in  you. 


O  YOU  WHOM  I  OFTEN  AND  SILENTLY  COME 

O  YOU  whom  I  often  and  silently  come  where  you  are  that  I 

may  be  with  you, 
As  I  walk  by  your  side  or  sit  near,  or  remain  in  the  same 

room  with  you, 
Little  you  know  the  subtle  electric  fire  that  for  your  sake  is 

playing  within  me. 

THAT  SHADOW  MY  LIKENESS 

THAT  shadow  my  likeness  that  goes  to  and  fro  seeking  a  liveli 
hood,  chattering,  chaffering, 
How  often  I  find  myself  standing  and  looking  at  it  where  it 

flits, 

How  often  I  question  and  doubt  whether  that  is  really  me; 
But  among  my  lovers  and  carolling  these  songs, 
Or  I  never  doubt  whether  that  is  really  me. 


ii4  Leaves  of  Grass 

FULL  OF  LIFE  NOW 

FULL  of  life  now,  compact,  visible, 
I,  forty  years  old  the  eighty-third  year  of  the  States, 
To  one  a  century  hence  or  any  number  of  centuries  hence, 
To  you  yet  unborn  these,  seeking  you. 

When  you  read  these  I  that  was  visible  am  become  invisible, 
Now  it  is  you,  compact,  visible,  realising  my  poems,  seeking  me, 
Fancying  how  happy  you  were  if  I  could  be  with  you  and 

become  your  comrade; 
Be  it  as  if  I  were  with  you.     (Be  not  too  certain  but  I  am 

now  with  you.) 


SALUT  AU  MONDE  I 


O  TAKE  my  hand,  Walt  Whitman  1 
Such  gliding  wonders  1  such  sights  and  sounds! 
Such  join'd  unended  links,  each  hook'd  to  the  next, 
Each  answering  all,  each  sharing  the  earth  with  all. 

WThat   widens   within   you,  Walt  Whitman? 

What  waves  and  soils  exuding? 

What  climes?  what  persons  and  cities  are  here? 

Who  are  the  infants,  some  playing,  some  slumbering? 

Who  are  the  girls?  who  are  the  married  women? 

Who  are  the  groups  of  old  men  going  slowly  with  their  arms 

about  each  other's  necks? 

What  rivers  are  these?  what  forests  and  fruits  are  these? 
What  are  the  mountains  call'd  that  rise  so  high  in  the  mists? 
What  myriads  of  dwellings  are  they  fill'd  with  dwellers  ? 


Within  me  latitude  widens,  longitude  lengthens, 

Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  are  to  the  east — America  is  provided 

for  in  the  west, 

Banding  the  bulge  of  the  earth  winds  the  hot  equator, 
Curiously  north  and  south  turn  the  axis-ends, 
Within  me  is  the  longest  day,  the  sun  wheels  in  slanting  rings, 

it  does  not  set  for  months, 
Stretched  in  due  time  within  me  the  midnight  sun  just  rises 

above  the  horizon  and  sinks  again, 

Within  me  zones,  seas,  cataracts,  forests,  volcanoes,  groups, 
Malaysia,  Polynesia,  and  the  great  West  Indian  islands. 

3 

What  do  you  hear,  Walt  Whitman? 

I  hear  the  workman  singing  and  the  farmer's  wife  singing, 
I  hear  in  the  distance  the  sounds  of  children  and  of  animals 
early  in  the  day, 

115 


ii6  Leaves  of  Grass 

T  hear  emulous  shouts  of  Australians  pursuing  the  wild  horse, 
I  hear  the  Spanish  dance  with  castanets  in  the  chestnut  shade, 

to  the  rebeck  and  guitar, 
I  hear  continual  echoes  from  the  Thames, 
I  hear  fierce  French  liberty  songs, 
I  hear  of  the  Italian  boat-sculler  the  musical  recitative  of  old 

poems, 
I  hear  the  locusts  in  Syria  as  they  strike  the  grain  and  grass 

with  the  showers  of  their  terrible  clouds, 
I  hear  the  Coptic  refrain  toward  sundown,  pensively  falling  on 

the  breast  of  the  black  venerable  vast  mother  the  Nile, 
I  hear  the  chirp  of  the  Mexican  muleteer,  and  the  bells  of  the 

mule, 

I  hear  the  Arab  muezzin  calling  from  the  top  of  the  mosque, 
I  hear  the  Christian  priests  at  the  altars  of  their  churches,  I 

hear  the  responsive  base  and  soprano, 
I  hear  the  cry  of  the  Cossack,  and  the  sailor's  voice  putting  to 

sea  at  Okotsk, 
I  hear  the  wheeze  of  the  slave-coffle  as  the  slaves  march  on, 

as  the  husky  gangs  pass  on  by  twos  and  threes,  fasten'd 

together  with  wrist-chains  and  ankle-chains, 
I  hear  the  Hebrew  reading  his  records  and  psalms, 
I  hear  the  rhymthic  myths  of   the   Greeks,  and   the   strong 

legends  of  the  Romans, 

I  hear  the  tale  of  the  divine  life  and  bloody  death  of  the  beau 
tiful  God  the  Christ, 
1  hear  the  Hindoo  teaching  his  favourite  pupil  the  loves,  wars, 

adages,  transmitted  safely  to  this  day   from  poets   who 

wrote  three  thousand  years  ago. 


What  do  you  see,  Walt  Whitman? 

Who  are  they  you  salute,  and  that  one  after  another  salute  you? 

I  see  a  great  round  wonder  rolling  through  space, 
I  see  diminute  farms,  hamlets,  ruins,  graveyards,  jails,  fac 
tories,  palaces,  hovels,  huts  of  barbarians,  tents  of  nomads 
upon  the  surface, 

I  see  the  shaded  part  on  one  side  where  the  sleepers  are  sleep 
ing,  and  the  sunlit  part  on  the  other  side, 
I  see  the  curious  rapid  change  of  light  and  shade, 
I  see  distant  lands,  as  real  and  near  to  the  inhabitants  of  them 
as  my  land  is  to  me. 


Salut  au  Monde!  117 

I  see  plenteous  waters, 

I  see  mountain  peaks,  I  see  the  sierras  of  Andes  where  they 

range, 

I  see  plainly  the  Himalayas,  Chian  Shahs,  Altays,  Ghauts, 
I  see  the  giant  pinnacles  of  Elbruz,  Kazbek,  Bazardjusi, 
I  see  the  Styrian  Alps,  and  the  Karnac  Alps, 
I  see  the  Pyrenees,  Balks,  Carpathians,  and  to  the  north  the 

Dofrafields,  and  off  at  sea  Mount  Hecla, 
I  see  Vesuvius  and  Etna,  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  and  the 

Red  Mountains  of  Madagascar, 
I  see  the  Lybian,  Arabian,  and  Asiatic  deserts, 
I  see  huge  dreadful  Arctic  and  Antarctic  icebergs, 
I  see  the  superior  oceans  and  the  inferior  ones,  the  Atlantic 

and  Pacific,  the  Sea  of  Mexico,  the  Brazilian  Sea,  and  the 

Sea  of  Peru, 
The  waters  of  Hindustan,  the  China  Sea,  and  the  Gulf  of 

Guinea, 
The  Japan  waters,  the  beautiful  bay  of  Nagasaki,  land-lock'd 

in  its  mountains, 
The  spread  of  the  Baltic,  Caspian,  Bothnia,  the  British  shores, 

and  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
The  clear-sunn'd  Mediterranean,  and  from  one  to  another  of 

its  islands, 
The  White  Sea,  and  the  sea  around  Greenland. 

I  behold  the  mariners  of  the  world, 

Some  are  in  storms,  some  in  the  night  with  the  watch  on  the 

lookout, 
Some  drifting  helplessly,  some  with  contagious  diseases. 

I  behold  the  sail  and  steamships  of  the  world,  some  in  clusters 

in  port,  some  on  their  voyages, 
Some  double  the  Cape  of  Storms,  some  Cape  Verde,  others 

Capes  Guardafui,  Bon,  or  Bajadore, 
Others  Dondra  Head,  others  pass  the  Straits  of  Sunda,  others 

Cape  Lopatka,  others  Behring's  Straits, 
Others  Cape  Horn,  others  sail  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  or  along 

Cuba  or  Hayti,  others  Hudson's  Bay  or  Baffin's  Bay, 
Others  pass   the   Straits   of   Dover,   others   enter  the   Wash, 

others  the  Firth   of   Sol  way,   others   round   Cape   Gear, 

others  the  Land's  End, 
Others  traverse  the  Zuyder  Zee  or  the  Scheld, 
Others  as  comers  and  goers  at  Gibraltar  or  the  Dardanelles, 
Others  sternly  push  their  way  through  the  northern  winter- 
packs. 


n8  Leaves  of  Grass 

Others  descend  or  ascend  the  Obi  or  the  Lena, 

Others  the  Niger  or  the  Congo,  others  the  Indus,  the  Buram- 
pooter  and  Cambodia, 

Others  wait  steam'd  up  ready  to  start  in  the  ports  of  Aus 
tralia, 

Wait  at  Liverpool,  Glasgow,  Dublin,  Marseilles,  Lisbon, 
Naples,  Hamburg,  Bremen,  Bordeaux,  the  Hague,  Copen 
hagen, 

Wait  at  Valparaiso,  Rio  Janeiro,  Panama. 


I  see  the  tracks  of  the  railroads  of  the  earth, 

I  see  them  in  Great  Britain,  I  see  them  in  Europe, 

I  see  them  in  Asia  and  in  Africa. 

I  see  the  electric  telegraphs  of  the  earth, 
I  see  the  filaments  of  the  news  of  the  wars,  deaths,  losses, 
gains,  passions,  of  my  race. 

I  see  the  long  river-stripes  of  the  earth, 

I  see  the  Amazon  and  the  Paraguay, 

I  see 'the  four  great  rivers  of  China,  the  Amour,  the  Yellow 

River,   the  Yiang-tse,  and   the   Pearl. 
I  see  where  the  Seine  flows,  and  where  the  Danube,  the  Loire, 

the  Rhone,  and  the  Guadalquiver  flow, 
I  see  the  windings  of  the  Volga,  the  Dneiper,  the  Oder, 
I  see  the  Tuscan   going   down   the   Arno,   and  the   Venetian 

along  the  Po, 
I  see  the  Greek   seaman   sailing   out  of   Egina   Bay. 


I  see  the    site  of  the  old  empire  of  Assyria,  and  that  of  Per 
sia,  and  that  of  India, 
I  see  the  falling  of  the  Ganges  over  the  high  rim  of  Saukara. 

I  see  the  place  of  the  idea  of  the  Deity  incarnated  by  avatars 
in  human  forms, 

I  see  the  spots  of  the  successions  of  priests  on  the  earth, 
oracles,  sacrifices,  brahmins,  sabians,  llamas,  monks,  muf 
tis,  exhorters, 

I  see  where  druids  walk'd  the  groves  of  Mona,  I  see  the 
mistletoe  and  vervain, 


Salut  au  Monde  I  119 

I  see  the  temples  of  the  deaths  of  the  bodies  of  gods,  I  see 

the  old  signifiers, 
I  see  Christ  eating  the  bread  of  His  last  supper  in  the  midst 

of  youths  and  old  persons, 
I    see    where    the    strong    divine    young    man    the    Hercules 

toil'd  faithfully  and  long  and  then  died, 
I  see  the  place  of  the  innocent  rich  life  and  hapless  fate  of 

the  beautiful  nocturnal  son,  the  full-limb*d  Bacchus, 
I  see  Kneph,   blooming,    drest    in    blue,    with    the    crown    of 

feathers  on  his  head, 
I  see  Hermes,  unsuspected,  dying,  well-belov'd,  saying  to  the 

people,  Do  not  weep  for  me, 
This  is  not  my  true  country,  I  have  lived  banish'd  frcm  my 

true  country,  I  now  go  back  there, 
I  return  to  the  celestial  sphere  where  every  one  goes  in  his  turn. 


I  see  the  battle-fields  of  the  earth,  grass  grows  upon   them 

and  blossoms  and  corn, 
I  see  the  tracks  of  ancient  and  modern  expeditions. 

I  see  the  nameless  masonries,  venerable  messages  of  the  un 
known  events,  heroes,  records  of  the  earth. 

I  see  the  places  of  the  sagas, 

I  see  pine-trees  and  fir-trees  torn  by  northern  blasts, 

I  see  granite  boulders  and  cliffs,  I  see  green  meadows  and 

lakes, 

I  see  the  burial-cairns  of  Scandinavian  warriors, 
I  see  them  raised  high  with  stones  by  the  marge  of  restless 
oceans,  that  the  dead  men's  spirits  when  they  wearied  of 
their  quiet  graves  might  rise  up  through  the  mounds  and 
gaze  on  the  tossing  billows,  and  be  refresh'd  by  storms, 
immensity,  liberty,  action. 

I  see  the  steppes  of  Asia, 

I  see  the  tumuli  of  Mongolia,  I  see  the  tents  of  Kalmucks 

and  Baskirs, 

I  see  the  nomadic  tribes  with  herds  of  oxen  and  cows, 
I  see  the  table-lands  notch'd  with  ravines,  I  see  the  jungles 

and  deserts, 
I  see  the  camel,   the   wild    steed,    the   bustard,    the    fat-tail'd 

sheep,  the  antelope,  and  the  burrowing  wolf. 


I2O  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  see  the  highlands  of  Abyssinia, 

I  see  flocks  of  goats  feeding,  and  see  the  fig-tree,  tamarind, 

date, 

And  see  fields  of  teff-wheat  and  places  of  verdure  and  gold. 
I  see  the  Brazilian  Vaquero, 
I  see  the  Bolivian  ascending  Mount  Sorata, 
I  see  the  Wacho  crossing  the  plains,  I  see  the  incomparable 

rider  of  horses  with  his  lasso  on  his  arm, 
I  see  over  the  pampas  the  pursuit  of   wild  cattle   for  their 

hides. 

8 

I  see  the  regions   of   snow  and   ice, 

I  see  the  sharp-eyed  Samoiede  and  the  Finn, 

I  see  the  seal-seeker  in  his  boat  poising  his  lance, 

I  see  the  Siberian  on  his  slight-built  sledge  drawn  by  dogs, 

I  see  the  porpoise-hunters,  I  see  the  whale-crews  of  the  South 

Pacific  and   the  North   Atlantic, 
I  see  the  cliffs,  glaciers,   torrents,  valleys,  of   Switzerland — I 

mark  the  long  winters  and  the  isolation. 


I  see  the  cities  of  the  earth  and  make  myself  at  random  a 
part  of  them, 

I  am  a  real  Parisian, 

I  am  a  habitan  of  Vienna,  St.  Petersburg,  Berlin,  Constanti 
nople, 

I  am  of  Adelaide,  Sidney,  Melbourne, 

I  am  of  London,  Manchester,  Bristol,  Edinburgh,  Limerick, 

I  am  of  Madrid,  Cadiz,  Barcelona,  Oporto,  Lyons,  Brussels, 
Berne,  Frankfort,  Stuttgart,  Turin,  Florence, 

I  belong  in  Moscow,  Cracow,  Warsaw,  or  northward  in 
Christiania  or  Stockholm,  or  in  Siberian  Irkutsk,  or  in 
some  street  in  Iceland, 

I  descend  upon  all  those  cities,  and  rise  from  them  again. 

10 

I  see  vapors  exhaling  from  unexplored  countries, 
I  see  the  savage  types,  the  bow  and  arrow,  the  poison'd  splint, 
the  fetich,  and  the  obi. 

I  see  African  and  Asiatic  towns, 

I  see  Algiers,  Tripoli,  Derne,  Mogadore,  Timbuctoo,  Mon 
rovia, 


Salut  au  Monde!  121 

I  see  the  swarms  of  Pekin,  Canton,  Benares,  Delhi,  Calcutta, 
Tokio, 

I  see  the  Kruman  in  his  hut,  and  the  Dahoman  and  Ashan- 
teeman  in  their  huts, 

I  see  the  Turk  smoking  opium  in  Aleppo, 

I  see  the  picturesque  crowds  at  the  fairs  of  Khiva  and  those 
of  Herat, 

I  see  Teheran,  I  see  Muscat  and  Medina,  and  the  interven 
ing  sands,  I  see  the  caravans  toiling  onward, 

I  see  Egypt  and  the  Egyptians,  I  see  the  pyramids  and  obelisks, 

I  look  on  chisell'd  histories,  records  of  conquering  kings,  dy 
nasties,  cut  in  slabs  of  sand-stone,  or  on  granite-blocks, 

I  see  at  Memphis  mummy-pits  containing  mummies  embalm'd, 
swathed  in  linen  cloth,  lying  there  many  centuries, 

I  look  on  the  fall'n  Theban,  the  large-ball'd  eyes,  the  side- 
drooping  neck,  the  hands  folded  across  the  breast. 

I  see  all  the  menials  of  the  earth,  labouring, 
I  see  all  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons, 

I  see  the  defective  human  bodies  of  the  earth, 

The  blind,  the  deaf  and  dumb,  idiots,  hunchbacks,  lunatics, 

The   pirates,    thieves,   betrayers,    murderers,    slave-makers   of 

the  earth, 
The  helpless  infants,  and  the  helpless  old  men  and  women. 

I  see  male  and  female  everywhere, 

I  see  the  serene  brotherhood  of  philosophs,  J 

I  see  the  constructiveness  of  my  race, 

I  see  the  results  of  the  perseverance  and  industry  of  my  race, 

I  see  ranks,    colours,    barbarisms,    civilisations,    I    go   among 

them,  I  mix  indiscriminately, 
And  I  salute  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth. 

11 

You  whoever  you  are! 

You  daughter  or  son  of  England  1 

You  of  the  mighty  Slavic  tribes  and  empires  I  you  Russ  in 
Russia ! 

You  dim-descended,  black,  divine-soul'd  African,  large,  fine- 
headed,  nobly- form'd,  superbly  destin'd,  on  equal  terms 
with  mel 

You  Norwegian!   Swede!  Dane!   Icelander!  you  Prussian  1 

You  Spaniard  of  Spain!  you  Portuguese! 


122  Leaves  of  Grass 

You  Frenchwoman  and  Frenchman  of  France  I 

You  Beige!  you  liberty-lover  of  the  Netherlands  1  (you  stock 
whence  I  myself  have  descended)  ; 

You  stury  Austrian  !  you  Lombard !  Hun  !  Bohemian  !  farmer 
of  Styria! 

You  neighbour  of  the  Danube! 

You  working-man  of  the  Rhine,  the  Elbe,  or  the  Weser!  you 
working- woman  too ! 

You  Sardinian !  you  Bavarian!  Swabian !  Sax,on!  'Walla- 
chian!  Bulgarian! 

You  Roman  !  Neapolitan !  you  Greek ! 

You  lithe  matador   in   the   arena  at   Seville! 

You  mountaineer  living  lawlessly  on  the  Taurus  or  Caucasus! 

You  Bokh  horse-herd  watching  your  mares  and  stallions 
feeding ! 

You  beautiful-bodied  Persian  at  full  speed  in  the  saddle  shoot 
ing  arrows  to  the  mark! 

You  Chinaman  and  Chinawoman  of  China!  you  Tartar  of 
Tartary ! 

You  women  of  the  earth  subordinated  at  your  tasks! 

You  Jew  journeying  in  your  old  age  through  every  risk  to 
stand  once  on  Syrian  ground! 

You  other  Jews  waiting  in  all  lands  for  your  Messiah! 

You  thoughtful  Armenian  pondering  by  some  stream  of  the 
Euphrates !  you  peering  amid  the  ruins  of  Nineveh !  you 
ascending  Mount  Ararat ! 

You  foot-worn  pilgrim  welcoming  the  far-away  sparkle  of  the 
minarets  of  Mecca! 

You  sheiks  along  the  stretch  from  Suez  to  Bab-el-mandeb 
ruling  your  families  and  tribes ! 

You  olive-grower  tending  your  fruit  on  fields  of  Nazareth, 
Damascus,  or  Lake  Tiberias ! 

You  Thibet  trader  on  the  wide  inland  or  bargaining  in  the 
shops  of  Lassa! 

You  Japanese  man  or  woman!  you  liver  in  Madagascar,  Cey 
lon,  Sumatra,  Borneo ! 

All  you  continentals  of  Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  Australia,  in 
different  of  place! 

All  you  on  the  numberless  islands  of  the  archipelagoes  of 
the  sea! 

And  you  of  centuries  hence  when  you  listen  to  me ! 

And  you  each  and  everywhere  whom  I  specify  not,  but  in 
clude  just  the  same! 

Health  to  you !  good  will  to  you  all,  from  me  and  America  sent! 


Salutau  Monde!  123 

Each  of  us  inevitable, 

Each  of  us  limitless — each  of  us  with  his  or  her  right  upon 

the  earth, 

Each  of  us  allow'd  the  eternal  purports  of  the  earth. 
Each  of  us  here  as  divinely  as  any  is  here. 

12 

You  Hottentot  with  clicking  palate !  you  woolly-hair'd  hordes ! 

You  own'd  persons  dropping  sweat-drops  or  blood-drops ! 

You  human  forms  with  the  fathomless  ever-impressive  coun 
tenances  of  brutes! 

You  poor  koboo  whom  the  meanest  of  the  rest  look  down 
upon  for  all  your  glimmering  language  and  spirituality  1 

You  dwarf 'd  Kamtschatkan,  Greenlander,  Lapp ! 

You  Austral  negro,  naked,  red,  sooty,  with  protrusive  lip, 
groveling,  seeking  your  foodl 

You  Caffre,  Barber,  Soudanese! 

You  haggard,  uncouth,  untutor'd  Bedowee ! 

You  plague-swarms  in  Madras,  Nankin,  Kaubul,  Cairo! 

You  benighted  roamer  of  Amazonia!  you  Patagonian !  you 
Feejeeman ! 

I  do  not  prefer  others  so  very  much  before  you  either, 

I  do  not  say  one  word  against  you,  away  back  there  where 
you  stand, 

(You  will  come  forward  in  due  time  to  my  side). 


13 

My  spirit  has  pass'd  in  compassion  and  determination  around 

the  whole  earth, 
I  have  look'd  for  equals  and  lovers  and  found  them  ready  for 

me  in  all  lands, 
I  think  some  divine  rapport  has  equalised  me  with  them. 

You  vapours,  I  think  I  have  risen  with  you,  moved  away  to 
distant  continents,  and  fallen  down  there,  for  reasons, 

I  think  I  have  blown  with  you  you  winds ; 

You  waters    I   have  finger'd   every   shore   with   you, 

I  have  run  through  what  any  river  or  strait  of  the  globe  has 
run  through, 

I  have  taken  my  stand  on  the  bases  of  peninsulas  and  on  the 
high  embedded  rocks,  to  cry  thence: 


124  Leaves  of  Grass 

Salut  an  monde! 

What  cities  the  light  or  warmth  penetrates  I  penetrate  those 

cities  myself, 
All  islands  to  which  birds  wing  their  way  I  wing  my  way 

myself. 

Toward  you  all,  in  America's  name, 

I  raise  high  the  perpendicular  hand,  I  make  the  signal, 

To  remain  after  me  in  sight  for  ever, 

For  all  the  haunts  and  homes  of  men. 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD 

i 

AFOOT  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road, 

Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 

The  long  brown  path  before  me  leading  wherever  I  choose. 

Henceforth  I  ask  not  good-fortune,  I  myself  am  good-fort;une, 
Henceforth  I  whimper  no  more,  postpone  no  more,  need  nothing, 
Done  with  indoor  complaints,  libraries,  querulous  criticisms, 
Strong  and  content  I  travel  the  open  road. 

The  earth,  that   is   sufficient, 

I  do  not  want  the  constellations  any  nearer, 

I  know  they  are  very  well  where  they  are, 

I  know  they  suffice  for  those  who  belong  to  them. 

(Still  here  I  carry  my  old  delicious  burdens, 

I  carry  them,  men  and  women,  I  carry  them  with  me  wherever 

I  go, 

I  swear  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  rid  of  them, 
I  am  fill'd  with  them,  and  I  will  fill  them  in  return.) 


You  road  I  enter  upon  and  look  around,  I  believe  you  are  not 

all  that  is  here, 
I  believe  that  much  unseen  is  also  here. 

Here  the  profound  lesson  of  reception,  nor  preference  nor 

denial, 

The  black  with  his  woolly  head,  the  felon,  the  diseas'd,  the 

illiterate  person,  are  not  denied; 
The  birth,  the  hasting  after  the  physician,  the  beggar's  tramp, 

the  drunkard's  stagger,  the  laughing  party  of  mechanics, 
The  escaped  youth,  the  rich  person's  carriage,  the   fop,  the 

eloping  couple, 
The  early  market-man,  the  hearse,  the  moving  of  furniture 

into  the  town,  the  return  back  from  the  town, 

125 


ia6  Leaves  of  Grass 

They  pass,  I  also  pass,  anything  passes,  none  can  be  inter 
dicted, 
None  but  are  accepted,  none  but  shall  be  dear  to  me. 


You  air  that  serves  me  with  breath  to  speak! 

You  objects  that  call   from  diffusion  my  meanings  and  give 

them  shape! 
You  light  that  wraps  me  and  all  things  in  delicate  equable 

showers ! 

You  paths  worn  in  the  irregular  hollows  by  the  roadsides ! 
I  believe  you  are  latent  with  unseen  existences,  you  are  so  dear 

to  me. 

You  flagg'd  walks  of  the  cities !  you  strong  curbs  at  the  edges  I 

You  ferries !  you  planks  and  posts  of  wharves !  you  timber- 
lined  sides  !  you  distant  ships  ! 

You  rows  of  houses !  you  window-pierc'd  facades !  you  roofs  I 

You  porches  and  entrances !  you  copings  and  iron  guards ! 

You  windows  whose  transparent  shells  might  expose  so  much ! 

You  doors  and  ascending  steps !  you  arches ! 

You  grey  stones  of  interminable  pavements !  you  trodden 
crossings ! 

From  all  that  has  touch'd  you  I  believe  you  have  imparted  to 
yourselves,  and  now  would  impart  the  same  secretly  to  me, 

From  the  living  and  the  dead  you  have  peopled  your  im 
passive  surfaces,  and  the  spirits  thereof  would  be  evident 
and  amicable  with  me. 


The  earth  expanding  right  hand  and  left  hand, 

The  picture  alive,  every  part  in  its  best  light, 

The  music  falling  in  where  it  is  wanted,  and  stopping  where 

it  is  not  wanted, 
The  cheerful  voice  of  the  public  road,  the  gay  fresh  sentiment 

of  the  road. 

O  highway  I  travel,  do  you  say  to  me,  Do  not  leave  me? 
Do  you  say,  Venture  not — if  you  leave  me  you  are  lost? 
DC  you  say,  /  am  already  prepared,  I  am  well-beaten  and  un- 
denied,  adhere  to  me? 


Song  of  the  Open  Road  127 

0  public  road,  I  say  back  I  am  not  afraid  to  leave  you,  yet 

I  love  you, 

You  express  me  better  than  I  can  express  myself, 
You  shall  be  more  to  me  than  my  poem. 

1  think  heroic  deeds  were  all  conceiv'd  in  the  open  air,  and 

all  free  poems  also, 

I  think  I  could  stop  here  myself  and  do  miracles, 
I  think  whatever  I  shall  meet  on  the  road  I  shall  like,  and 

whoever  beholds  me  shall  like  me. 
I  think  whoever  I  see  must  be  happy. 


From  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of  limits  and  imaginary 

lines, 

Going  where  I  list,  my  own  master  total  and  absolute, 
Listening  to  others,  considering  well  what  they  say, 
Pausing,  searching,   receiving,  contemplating, 
Gently,  but  with  undeniable  will,  divesting  myself  of  the  holds 

that  would  hold  me. 

I  inhale  great  draughts  of  space. 

The  east  and  the  west  are  mine,  and  the  north  and  the  south 
are  mine. 

I  am  larger,  better  than  I  thought, 

I  did  not  know  I  held  so  much  goodness. 

All  seems  beautiful  to  me, 

I  can  repeat  over  to  men  and  women,  You  have  done  such 

good  to  me  I  would  do  the  same  to  you, 
I  will  recruit  for  myself  and  you  as  I  go, 
I  will  scatter  myself  among  men  and  women  as  I  go, 
I  will  toss  a  new  gladness  and  roughness  among  them, 
Whoever  denies  me  it  shall  not  trouble  me, 
Whoever  accepts  me^e  or  she  shall  be  blessed  and  shall  bless 

me. 


Now  if  a  thousand  perfect  men  were  to  appear  it  would  not 

amaze  me, 
Now  if  a  thousand  beautiful   forms  of  women  appear'd  it 

would  not  astonish  me. 


ia8  Leaves  of  Grass 

Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  making  of  the  b'est  persons, 
It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air  and  to  eat  and  sleep  with  the 
earth. 

Here  a  great  personal  deed  has  room, 

(Such  a  deed  seizes  upon  the  hearts  of  the  whole  race  of  men, 
Its  effusion  of  strength  and  will  overwhelms  law  *nd  mocks 
all  authority  and  all  argument  against  it). 

Here  is  the  test  of  wisdom, 

Wisdom  is  not  finally  tested  in  schools, 

Wisdom  cannot  be  pass'd  from  one  having  it  to  another  not 

having  it, 
Wisdom  is  of  the  soul,  is  not  susceptible  of  proof,  is  its  own 

proof, 

Applies  to  all  stages  and  objects  and  qualities  and  is  content, 
Is  the  certainty  of  reality  and  immortality  of  things,  and  the 

excellence  of  things; 
Something  there  is  in  the  float  of  the  sight  of  things  that 

provokes  it  out  of  the  soul. 

Now  I  re-examine  philosophies  and  religions, 

They  may  prove  well  in  lecture-rooms,  yet  not  prove  at  all 

under  the  spacious  clouds  and  along  the  landscape  and 

flowing  currents. 
Here  is  realisation, 

Here  is  a  man  tallied — he  realises  here  what  he  has  in  him, 
The  past,  the  future,  majesty,  love — if  they  are  vacant  of 

you,  you  are  vacant  of  them. 

Only  the  kernel  of  every  object  nourishes; 
Where  is  he  who  tears  off  the  husks  for  you  and  me? 
Where  is  he  that  undoes  stratagems  and  envelopes  for  you 
and  me? 

Here   is   adhesiveness,   it   is    not   previously    fashion'd,    it    is 

apropos ; 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  as  you  pass  to  be  loved  by  strangers? 
Do  you  know  the  talk  of  those   turning  eye-balls? 


Here  is  the  efflux  of  the  soul, 

The  efflux  of  the  soul  comes  from  within  through  embower'd 
gates,  ever  provoking  questions, 


Song  of  the  Open  Road  129 

These  yearnings , why  are  they;  these  thoughts  in  the  dark 
ness^  why  are  they? 

Why  are  there  men  and  women  that  while  they  are  nigh  me 
the  sunlight  expands  my  blood? 

Why  when  they  leave  me  do  my  pennants  of  joy  sink  fiat  and 
lank? 

Why  are  there  trees  I  never  walk  under  but  large  and  melod 
ious  thoughts  descend  upon  me? 

(I  think  they  hang  there  winter  and  summer  on  those  trees 
and  always  drop  fruit  as  I  pass)  ; 

What  is  it  I  interchange  so  suddenly  with  strangers? 

What  with  some  driver  as  I  ride  on  the  seat  by  his  side? 

What  with  some  fisherman  drawing  his  seine  by  the  shore 
as  I  walk  by  and  pause? 

What  gives  me  to  be  free  to  a  woman's  and  man's  good-will  ? 
what  gives  them  to  be  free  to  mine? 

8 

The  efflux  of  the  soul  is  happiness,  here  is  happiness, 

I  think  it  pervades  the  open  air,  waiting  at  all  times, 

Now  it  flows  unto  us,  we  are  rightly  charged. 

Here  rises  the  fluid  and  attaching  character, 

The  fluid  and  attaching  character  is  the  freshness  and  sweet 
ness  of  man  and  woman, 

(The  herbs  of  the  morning  sprout  no  fresher  and  sweeter 
every  day  out  of  the  roots  of  themselves,  than  it  sprouts 
fresh  and  sweet  continually  out  of  itself), 

Toward  the  fluid  and  attaching  character  exudes  the  sweat  of 
the  love  of  young  and  old, 

From  it  falls  distill'd  the  charm  that  mocks  beauty  and  attain 
ments, 

Toward  it  heaves  the  shuddering,  longing  ache  of  contact. 


Aliens!  whoever  you  are  come  travel  with  me! 
Travelling  with  me  you  find  what  never  tires. 

The  earth  never  tires, 

The  earth  is  rude,  silent,  incomprehensible  at  first,  Nature  is 

rude  and  incomprehensible  at  first, 
Be  not  discouraged,  keep   on,  there  are  divine  things  well 

enveloped, 


130  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  swear  to  you  there  are  divine  things  more  beautiful  than 
words  can  tell. 

Aliens !  we  must  not  stop  here, 

However  sweet  these  laid-up  stores,  however  convenient  this 

dwelling  we  cannot  remain  here, 
However  shelter'd  this  port  and  however  calm  these  waters 

we  must  not  anchor  here, 
However  welcome  the  hospitality  that  surrounds  us  we  are 

permitted  to   receive  it  but  a  little  while. 

10 

Allons!  the  inducements  shall  be  greater, 
We  will  sail  pathless  and  wild  seas, 

We  will  go  where  winds  blow,  waves  dash,  and  the  Yankee 
clipper  speeds  by  under  full  sail. 

Allons!  with  power,  liberty,  the  earth,  the  elements, 

Health,  defiance,  gaiety,  self-esteem,  curiosity; 

Allons !  from  all  f ormules ! 

From  your  formules,  O  bat-eyed  and  materialistic  priests. 

The  stale  cadaver  blocks  up  the  passage — the  burial  waits  no 
longer. 

Allons !  yet  take  warning ! 

He  travelling  with  me  needs  the  best  blood,  thews,  endurance, 

None  may  come  to  the  trial  till  he  or  she  bring  courage  and 
health, 

Come  not  here  if  you  have  already  spent  the  best  of  yourself, 

Only  those  may  come  who  come  in  sweet  and  determin'd 
bodies, 

No  diseas'd  person,  no  rum-drinker  or  venereal  taint  is  per 
mitted  here. 

(I  and  mine  do  not  convince  by  arguments,  similes,  rhymes, 

We  convince  by  our  presence.) 

11 

Listen!  I  will  be  honest  with  you, 

I  do  not  offer  the  old  smooth  prizes,  but  offer  rough  new  prizes, 

These  are  the  days  that  must  happen  to  you : 

You  shall  not  heap  up  what  is  call'd  riches, 


Song  of  the  Open  Road  131 

You  shall  scatter  with  lavish  hand  all  that  you  earn  or  achieve, 
You  but  arrive  at  the  city  to  which  you  were  destin'd,  you 

hardly  settle  yourself  to  satisfaction  before  you  are  call'd 

by  an  irresistible  call  to  depart, 
You  shall  be  treated  to  the  ironical  smiles  and  mockings  of 

those  who  remain  behind  you, 
What  beckonings  of  love  you  receive  you  shall  only  answer 

with  passionate  kisses  of  parting, 
You   shall   not  allow  the  hold   of   those   who   spread   their 

reach'd  hands  toward  you. 

12 

Allons!  after  the  great  Companions,  and  to  belong  to  them  I 
They  too  are  on  the  road — they  are  the  swift  and  majestic  men 

— they  are  the  greatest  women, 
Enjoyers  of  calms  of  seas  and  storms  of  seas, 
Sailors  of  many  a  ship,  walkers  of  many  a  mile  of  land, 
Habitue   of   many   distant   countries,   habitues   of    far-distant 

dwellings, 

Trusters  of  men  and  women,  observers  of  cities,  solitary  toilers, 
Pausers  and  contemplators  of  tufts,  blossoms,  shells  of  the 

shore, 
Dancers  at  wedding-dances,  kissers  of  brides,  tender  helpers  of 

children,  bearers  of  children, 
Soldiers  of  revolts,  standers  by  gaping  graves,  lowerers-down 

of  coffins, 
Journeyers  over  consecutive  seasons,  over  the  years,  the  curious 

years  each  emerging  from  that  which  preceded  it, 
Journeyers   as   with    companions,    namely   their   own    diverse 

phases, 

Forth-steppers  from  the  latent  unrealised  baby-days, 
Journeyers  gaily  with  their  own  youth,  Journeyers  with  their 

bearded  and  well-grain'd  manhood, 

Journeyers  with  their  womanhood,  ample,  unsurpass'd,  content, 
Journeyers  with  their  own  sublime  old  age  of  manhood  or 

womanhood, 
Old  age,  calm,  expanded,  broad  with  the  haughty  breadth  of 

the  universe, 
Old  age,  flowing  free  with  the  delicious  near-by  freedom  of 

death. 

13 

Allons !  to  that  which  is  endless  as  it  was  beginningless, 
To  undergo  much,  tramps  of  days,  rests  of  nights, 


132  Leaves  of  Grass 

To  merge  all  in  the  travel  they  tend  to,  and  the  days  and 

nights  they  tend  to, 

Again  to  merge  them  in  the  start  of  superior  journeys, 
To  see  nothing  anywhere  but  what  you  may  reach  it  and  pass  it, 
To  conceive   no   time,   however   distant,   but   what   you    may 

reach  it  and  pass  it, 
To  look  up  or  down  no  road  but  it  stretches  and  waits  for 

you,  however  long  but  it  stretches  and  waits  for  you, 
To  see  no  being,  not  God's  or  any,  but  you  also  go  thither, 
To   see  no  possession  but  you  may  possess  it,  enjoying  all 

without  labour  or  purchase,  abstracting  the  feast  yet  not 

abstracting  one  particle  of  it, 
To  take  the  best  of  the   farmer's   farm  and  the  rich  man's 

elegant  villa,  and  the  chaste  blessings  of  the  well-married 

couple,  and  the  fruits  of  orchards  and  flowers  of  gardens, 
To  take  to  your  use  out  of  the  compact  cities  as  you  pass 

through, 
To  carry  buildings  and  streets  with  you  afterward  wherever 

you  go, 

To  gather  the  minds  of  men  out  of  their  brains  as  you  en 
counter  them,  to  gather  the  love  out  of  their  hearts, 
To  take  your  lovers  on  the  road  with  you,  for  all  that  you 

leave  them  behind  you, 
To  know  the  universe  itself  as  a  road,  as  many  roads,  as 

roads  for  travelling  souls. 

All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls, 

All  religion,  all  solid  things,  arts,  governments — all  that  was  or 
is  apparent  upon  this  globe  or  any  globe,  falls  into  niches 
and  corners  before  the  procession  of  souls  along  the  grand 
roads  of  the  universe. 

Of  the  progress  of  the  souls  of  men  and  women  along  the 
grand  roads  of  the  universe,  all  other  progress  is  the 
needed  emblem  and  sustenance. 

Forever  alive,   forever   forward, 

Stately,    solemn,    sad,    withdrawn,    baffled,    mad,    turbulent, 

feeble,  dissatisfied, 

Desperate,  proud,  fond,  sick,  accepted  by  men,  rejected  by  men, 
They  go !  they  go !  I  know  that  they  go,  but  I  know  not  where 

they  go, 
But  I  know  that  they  go  toward  the  best— toward  something 

great. 


Song  of  the  Open  Road  133 

Whoever  you  are,  come  forth  1  or  man  or  woman  come  forth  I 
You  must  not  stay  sleeping  and  dallying  there  in  the  house, 

though  you  built  it,  or  though  it  has  been  built  for  you. 
Out  of  the  dark  confinement!  out  from  behind  the  screen! 
It  is  useless  to  protest,  I  know  all  and  expose  it. 

Behold  through  you  as  bad  as  the  rest, 

Through  the  laughter,  dancing,  dining,  supping  of  people, 

Inside  of  dresses  and  ornaments,  inside  of  those  wash'd  and 

trimm'd  faces, 
Behold  a  secret  silent  loathing  and  despair. 

No  husband,  no  wife,  no  friend,  trusted  to  hear  the  confession, 
Another  self,  a  duplicate  of  every  one,  sulking  and  hiding  it  goes, 
Formless  and  wordless  through  the  streets  of  the  cities,  polite 

and  bland  in  the  parlours, 

In  the  cars  of  railroads,  in  steamboats,  in  the  public  assembly, 
Home  to  the  houses  of  men  and  women,  at  the  table,  in  the 

bed-room,  everywhere, 
Smartly    attired,    countenance    smiling,    form    upright,    death 

under  the  breast-bones,  hell  under  the  skull-bones, 
Under    the   broadcloth   and    gloves,    under    the    ribbons    and 

artificial  flowers, 

Keeping  fair  with  the  customs,  speaking  not  a  syllable  of  itself, 
Speaking  of  anything  else  but  never  of  itself. 


14 

Aliens!  through  struggles  and  wars  I 

The  goal  that  was  named  cannot  be  countermanded. 

Have  the  past  struggles  succeeded? 

What  has  succeeded?  yourself?  your  nation?   Nature? 

Now  understand  me  well — it  is  provided  in  the  essence  of 
things  that  from  any  fruition  of  success,  no  matter  what, 
shall  come  forth  something  to  make  a  greater  struggle 
necessary. 

My  call  is  the  call  of  battle,  I  nourish  active  rebellion, 
He  going  with  me  must  go  well  arm'd, 

He  going  with  me  goes  often  with  spare  diet,  poverty,  angry 
enemies,  desertions. 


134  Leaves  of  Grass 

15 

Aliens  1  the  road  is  before  us! 

It  is  safe — I  have  tried  it — my  ownJfeet  have  tried  it  well — be 

not  detain'd! 
Let  the  paper  remain  on  the  desk  unwritten,  and  the  book  on 

the  shelf  unopen'd! 
Let  the  tools  remain  in  the  workshop!  let  the  money  remain 

unearn'd ! 

Let  the  school  stand!  mind  not  the  cry  of  the  teacher! 
Let  the  preacher  preach  in  his  pulpit!  let  the  lawyer  plead  in 

the  court,  and  the  judge  expound  the  law. 

Camerado,  I  give  you  my  hand ! 

I  give  you  my  love  more  precious  than  money, 

I  give  you  myself  before  preaching  or  law; 

Will  you  give  me  yourself?  will  you  come  travel  with  mef 

Shall  we  stick  by  each  other  as  long  as  we  live? 


CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY 

i 

FLOOD-TIDE  below  me !  I  see  you  face  to  face ! 
Clouds  of  the  west — sun  there  half  an  hour  high — I  see  you 
also  face  to  face. 

Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the  usual  costumes,  how 
curious  you  are  to  me! 

On  the  ferry-boats  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  that  cross,  re 
turning  home,  are  more  curious  to  me  than  you  suppose, 

And  you  that  shall  cross  from  shore  to  shore  years  hence  are 
more  to  me,  and  more  in  my  meditations,  than  you 
might  suppose. 

2 

The  impalpable  sustenance  of  me  from  all  things  at  all  hours 
of  the  day, 

The  simple,  compact,  well-join'd  scheme,  myself  disintegrated, 
every  one  disintegrated  yet  part  of  the  scheme, 

The  similitudes  of  the  past  and  those  of  the  future, 

The  glories  strung  like  beads  on  my  smallest  sights  and  hear 
ings,  on  the  walk  in  the  street  and  the  passage  over  the  river, 

The  current  rushing  so  swiftly  and  swimming  with  me  far  away, 

The  others  that  are  to  follow  me,  the  ties  between  me  and 
them, 

The  certainty  of  others,  the  life,  love,  sight,  hearing  of  others. 

Others  will  enter  the  gates  of  the  ferry  and  cross  from  shore 

to  shore, 

Others  will  watch  the  run  of  the  flood-tide, 
Others  will  see  the  shipping  of  Manhattan  north  and  west, 

and  the  heights  of  Brooklyn  to  the  south  and  east, 
Others  will  see  the  islands  large  and  small; 
Fifty  years  hence,  others  will  see  them  as  they  cross,  the  sun 

half  an  hour  high, 
A  hundred  years  hence,  or  even  so  many  hundred  years  hence, 

others  will  see  them, 
Will  enjoy  the  sunset,  the  pouring-in  of  the  flood-tide,  the 

falling-back  to  the  sea  of  the  ebb-tide. 

135 


136  Leaves  of  Grass 

3 

It  avails  not,  time  nor  place — distance  avail  not, 

I  am  with  you,  you  men  and  women  of  a  generation,  or  ever 

so  many  generations  hence, 

Just  as  you  feel  when  you  look  on  the  river  and  sky,  so  I  felt, 
Just  as  any  of  you  is  one  of  a  living  crowd,  I  was  one  of  a 

crowd, 
Just  as  you  are  refresh'd  by  the  gladness  of  the  river  and  the 

bright  flow,  I  was  refresh'd, 
Just  as  you  stand  and  lean  on  the  rail,  yet  hurry  with  the  swift 

current,  I  stood  yet  was  hurried, 
Just  as  you  look  on  the  numberless  masts  of  ships  and  the 

thick-stemm'd  pipes  of  steamboats,  I  look'd. 

I  too  many  and  many  a  time  cross'd  the  river  of  old, 
Watched  the  Twelfth-month  sea-gulls,  saw  them  high  in  the 

air  floating  with  motionless  wings,  oscillating  their  bodies, 
Saw  how  the  glistening  yellow  lit  up  parts  of  their  bodies  and 

left  the  rest  in  strong  shadow, 
Saw  the  slow-wheeling  circles  and  the  gradual  edging  toward 

the  south, 

Saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the  water, 
Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering  track  of  beams, 
Look'd  at  the  fine  centrifugal  spokes  of  light  round  the  shape 

of  my  head  in  the  sunlit  water, 

Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the  hills  southward  and  south-westward, 
Look'd  on  the  vapour  as  it  flew  in  fleeces  tinged  with  violet, 
Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the  vessels  arriving, 
Saw  their  approach,  saw  aboard  those  that  were  near  me, 
Saw  the  white  sails  of  schooners  and  sloops,  saw  the  ships  at 

anchor, 

The  sailors  at  work  in  the  rigging  or  out  astride  the  spars, 
The  round  masts,  the  swinging  motion  of  the  hulls,  the  slender 

serpentine  pennants, 
The  large  and  small  steamers  in  motion,  the  pilots  in  their 

pilot-houses, 
The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the  quick  tremulous  whirl 

of  the  wheels, 

The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them  at  sunset, 
The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the  twilight,  the  ladled  cups,  the 

frolicsome  crests  and  glistening, 
The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  the  grey  walls 

of  the  granite  storehouses  by  the  docks, 


Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry  137 

On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big  steam-tug  closely 
flank'd  on  each  side  by  the  barges,  the  hay-boat,  the  be 
lated  lighter, 

On  the  neighboring  shore  the  fires  from  the  foundry  chimneys 
burning  high  and  glaringly  into  the  night, 

Casting  their  flicker  of  black  contrasted  with  wild  red  and 
yellow  light  over  the  tops  of  houses,  and  down  into  the 
clefts  of  streets. 

4 

These  and  all  else  were  to  me  the  same  as  they  are  to  you, 
I   loved   well   those  cities,    loved   well   the   stately  and  rapid 

river, 

The  men  and  women  I  saw  were  all  near  to  me, 
Others  the  same— others  who  look  back  on  me  because  I  lookM 

forward  to  them 
(The  time  will  come,  though  I  stop  here  to-day  and  to-night). 


What  is  it  then  between  us? 

What  is  the  count  of  the  scores  or  hundreds  of  years  between  us  ? 

Whatever  it  is,  it  avails  not— distance  avails  not,  and  place 

avails  not, 

I  too  lived,  Brooklyn  of  ample  hills  was  mine, 
I  too  walk'd  the  streets  of  Manhattan  Island,  and  bathed  in 

the  waters  around  it, 

I  too  felt  the  curious  abrupt  questionings  stir  within  me, 
In  the  day  among  crowds  of  people  sometimes  they  came  upon 

me, 
In  my  walks  home  late  at  night  or  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  they 

came  upon  me, 

I  too  had  been  struck  from  the  float  for  ever  held  in  solution 
i  too  had  receiv'd  identity  by  my  body, 
That  I  was  I  knew  was  of  my  body,  and  what  I  should  be  I 

knew  I  should  be  of  my  body. 

6 

It  is  not  upon  you  alone  the  dark  patches  fall 
The  dark  threw  its  patches  down  upon  me  also, 

5  best  I  had  done  seem'd  to  me  blank  and  suspicious, 
My  great  thoughts  as  I  supposed  them,  were  they  not  in  reality 
meagre  ? 


138  Leaves  of  Grass 

Nor  is  it  you  alone  who  know  what  it  is  to  be  evil, 

I  am  he  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  evil, 

I  too  knitted  the  old  knot  of  contrariety, 

Blabb'd,  blush'd  resented,   lied,  stole,  grudg'd, 

Had  guile,  anger,  lust,  hot  wishes  I  dared  not  speak, 

Was  wayward,  vain,  greedy,  shallow,  sly,  covyardly,  malignant, 

The  wolf,  the  snake,  the  hog,  not  wanting  in  me, 

The  cheating  look,  the  frivolous  word,  the  adulterous  wish, 

not  wanting, 
Refusals,    hates,    postponments,    meanness,    laziness,    none    of 

these  wanting, 

Was  one  with  the  rest,  the  days  and  haps  of  the  rest, 
Was  called  by  my  nighest  name  by  clear  loud  voices  of  young 

men  as  they  saw  me  approaching  or  passing, 
Felt  their  arms  on  my  neck  as  I  stood,  or  the  negligent  lean 
ing  of  their  flesh  against  me  as  I  sat, 

Saw  many  I  loved  in  the  street  or  ferry-boat  or  public  as 
sembly,  yet  never  told  them  a  word, 
Lived   the   same   life  with   the   rest,    the   same   old   laughing, 

gnawing,  sleeping, 

Play'd  the  part  that  still  looks  back  on  the  actor  or  actress, 
The  same  old  role,  the  role  that  is  what  we  make  it,  as  great  as 

we   like, 
Or  as  small  as  we  like,  or  both  great  and  small. 


Closer  yet  I  approach  you, 

What  thought  you  have  of  me  now,  I  had  as  much  of  you — I 

laid  in  my  stores  in  advance, 
I  consider'd  long  and  seriously  of  you  before  you  were  born. 

Who  was  to  know  what  should  come  home  to  me? 
Who  knows  but  I  am  enjoying  this? 

Who  knows,  for  all  the  distance,  but  I  am  as  good  as  looking 
at  you  now,  for  all  you  cannot  see  me? 

8 

Ah,  what  can  ever  be  more  stately  and  admirable  to  me  than 

mast-hemm'd   Manhattan  ? 

River  and  sunset  and  scallop-edg'd  waves  of  flood-tide? 
The   sea-gulls    oscillating   their   bodies,   the    hay-boat    in   the 

twilight,  and  the  belated  lighter? 


Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry  139 

What  gods  can  exceed  these  that  clasp  me  by  the  hand,  and 
with  voices  I  love  call  me  promptly  and  loudly  by  my 
nighest  name  as  I  approach? 

What  is  more  subtle  than  this  which  ties  me  to  the  woman  or 
man  that  looks  in  my  face? 

Which  fuses  me  into  you  now,  and  pours  my  meaning  into  you  ? 

We  understand  then  do  we  not? 

What   I   promis'd  without  mentioning  it ,  have  you  not  accepted  ? 
What  the  study  could  not  teach — what  the  preaching  could  not 
accomplish  is  accomplished,  is  it  not? 


Flow  on,  river !  flow  with  the  flood-tide,  and  ebb  with  the  ebb 
tide  1 

Frolic  on,  crested  and  scallop-edg'd  waves ! 
Gorgeous  clouds  of  the  sunset!  drench  with  your  splendour 

me,  or  the  men  and  women  generations  after  me! 
Cross  from  shore  to  shore,  countless  crowds  of  passengers  1 
Stand  up,  tall  masts  of  Mannahatta !  stand  up,  beautiful  hills 

of  Brooklyn ! 
Throb,  baffled  and  curious  brain!   throw  out  questions  and 

answers ! 

Suspend  here  and  everywhere,  eternal  float  of  solution! 
Gaze,   loving  and  thirsting  eyes,   in   the   house  or   street  or 

public  assembly ! 
Sound  out,  voices  of  young  men!   loudly  and  musically  call 

me  by  my  nighest  name ! 
Live,  old  life!  play  the  part  that  looks  back  on  the  actor  or 

actress ! 
Play  the  role,  the  role  that  is  great  or  small  according  as 

one  makes  it ! 
Consider,  you  who  peruse  me,  whether  I  may  not  in  unknown 

ways  be  looking  upon  you; 
Be  firm,  rail  over  the  river,  to  support  those  who  lean  idly,  yet 

haste  with  the  hasting  current; 
Fly  on,  sea-birds !  fly  sideways,  or  wheel  in  large  circles  high 

in  the  air ; 
Receive  the  summer  sky,  you  water,  and  faithfully  hold  it  till 

all  downcast  eyes  have  time  to  take  it  from  you! 
Diverge,  fine  spokes  of  light,  from  the  shape  of  my  head,  or 

any  one's  head,  in  the  sunlit  water! 


I4O  Leaves  of  Grass 

Come  on,  ships  from  the  lower  bay!  pass  up  or  down,  white- 

sail'd  schooners,  sloops,  lighters! 

Flaunt  away,  flags  of  all  nations !  be  duly  lower*  d  at  sunset ! 
Burn  high  your  fires,  foundry  chimneys!  cast  black  shadows 

at  nightfall!  cast  red  and  yellow  light  over  the  tops  of 

the  houses! 

Appearances,  now  or  henceforth,  indicate  what  you  are, 
You  necessary  film,  continue  to  envelop  the  soul, 
About  my  body  for  me,  and  your  body  for  you,  be  hung  our 

divinest  aromas, 
Thrive,  cities — bring  your  freight,  bring  your  shows,  ample 

and  sufficient  rivers, 

Expand,  being  than  which  none  else  is  perhaps  more  spiritual, 
Keep  your  places,  objects  than  which  none  else  is  more  lasting. 

You  have  waited,  you  always  wait,  you  dumb,  beautiful 
ministers, 

We  receive  you  with  free  sense  at  last,  and  are  insatiate  hence 
forward, 

Not  you  any  more  shall  be  able  to  foil  us,  or  withhold  your 
selves  from  us, 

We  use  you,  and  do  not  cast  you  aside — we  plant  you  perma- 
nanently  within  us, 

We  fathom  you  not — we  love  you — there  is  perfection  in  you 
also, 

You  furnish  your  parts  toward  eternity, 

Great  or  small,  your  furnish  your  parts  toward  the  soul. 


SONG  OF  THE  ANSWERER 

i 

Now  list  to  my  morning's   romanza,   I  tell  the  signs  of  the 

Answerer, 
To  the  cities  and  farms  I  sing  as  they  spread  in  the  sunshine 

before  me. 

A  young  man  comes  to  me  bearing  a  message  from  his  brother, 
How  shall  the  young  man  know  the  whether  and  when  of  his 

brother  ? 
Tell  him  to  send  me  the  signs. 

And  I  stand  before  the  young  man  face  to  face,  and  take  his 
right  hand  in  my  left  and  his  left  hand  in  my  right  hand, 

And  I.  answer  for  his  brother  and  for  men,  and  I  answer  for 
him  that  answers  for  all,  and  send  these  signs. 

Him  all  wait  for,  him  all  yield  up  to,  his  word  is  decisive  and 

final, 
Him  they  accept,  in  him  lave,  in  him  perceive  themselves  as 

amid  light, 
Him  they  immerse  and  he  immerses  them. 

Beautiful  women,  the  haughtiest  nations,  laws,  the  landscape, 

people,  animals, 
The  profound  earth  and  its  attributes  and  the  unquiet  ocean 

(so  tell  I  my  morning's  romanza), 
All    enjoyments    and    properties    and    money,    and    whatever 

money  will  buy, 
The  best  farms,  others  toiling  and  planting  and  he  unavoidably 

reaps, 
The  noblest  and  costliest  cities,  others  grading  and  building 

and  he  domiciles  there, 
Nothing  for  any  one  but  what  is  for  him,  near  and  far  are 

for  him,  the  ships  in  the  offing, 
The  perpetual  shows  and  marches  on  land  are  for  him  if  they 

are  for  anybody. 

141 


142  Leaves  of  Grass 

He  puts  things  in  their  attitudes, 

He  puts  to-day  out  of  himself  with  plasticity  and  love, 
He  places  his  own  times,  reminiscences,  parents,  brothers  and 
sisters,  associations,  employment,  politics,  so  that  the  rest 
never  shame  them  afterward,  nor  assume  to  command  them. 

He  is  the  Answerer, 

What  can  be  answer'd  he  answers,  and  what  cannot  be  answer'd 
he  shows  how  it  cannot  be  answer'd. 

A  man  is  a  summons  and  challenge, 

(It  is  vain  to  skulk — do  you  hear  that  mocking  and  laughter? 

do  you  hear  the  ironical  echoes?) 
Books,  friendships,  philosophers,  priests,  action,  pleasure,  pride, 

beat  up  and  down  seeking  to  give  satisfaction, 
He  indicates  the  satisfaction,  and  indicates  them  that  beat  up 

and  down  also. 

Whichever  the  sex,  whatever  the  season  or  place,  he  may  go 
freshly  and  gently  and  safely  by  day  or  by  night, 

He  has  the  pass-key  of  hearts,  to  him  the  response  of  the 
prying  of  hands  on  the  knobs. 

His  welcome  is  universal,  the  flow  of  beauty  is  not  more  wel 
come  or  universal  than  he  is, 
The  person  he  favours  by  day  or  sleeps  with  at  night  is  blessed. 

Exery  existence  has  its  idiom,  everything  has  an  idiom  and 

tongue, 
He  resolves  all  tongues  into  his  own  and  bestows  it  upon  men, 

and   any  man  translates,  and   any   man   translates    himself 

also, 
One  part  does  not  counteract  another  part,  he  is  the  joiner,  he 

sees  how  they  join. 

He  says  indifferently  and  alike  How  are  you,  friend?  to  the 

President  at  his  levee. 
And  he  says  Good-day,  my  brother,  to  Cudge  that  hoes  in  the 

sugar-field, 
And  both  understand  him  and  know  that  his  speech  is  right. 

He  walks  with  perfect  ease  in  the  capitol, 
He  walks  among  the  Congress,  and  one  Representatives  says 
to  another,  Here  is  our  equal  appearing  and  new. 


Song  of  the  Answerer  143 

Then  the  mechanics  take  him  for  a  mechanic, 

And  the  soldiers  suppose  him  to  be  a  soldier,  and  the  sailors 

that  he  has  follow'd  the  sea, 
And  the  authors  take  him  for  an  author,  and  the  artists  for 

an  artist, 
And  the  labourers  perceive  he  could  labour  with  them  and 

love  them, 
No  matter  what  the  work  is,  that  he  is  the  one  to  fellow  it  or 

has  follow'd  it, 
No  matter  what  the  nation,  that  he  might  find  his  brothers 

and  sisters  there. 

The  English  believe  he  comes  of  their  English  stock, 
A  Jew  to  the  Jew  he  seems,  a  Russ  to  the  Russ,  usual  and 
near,  removed  from  none. 

Whoever  he  looks  at  in  the  traveller's  coffee-house  claims  him, 
The  Italian  or  Frenchman  is  sure,  the  German  is  sure,   the 

Spaniard  is  sure,  and  the  island  Cuban  is  sure, 
The  engineer,   the  deck-hand   on   the  great  lakes,   or  on  the 

Mississippi  or  St.  Lawrence  or  Sacramento,  or  Hudson  or 

Paumanok  sound,  claims  him. 

The  gentleman  of  perfect  blood  acknowledges  his  perfect  blood, 
The  insulter,  the  prostitute,  the  angry  person,  the  beggar,  see 

themselves  in  the  ways  of  him,  he  strangely  transmutes 

them, 
They  are  not  vile  any  more,  they  hardly  know  themselves  they 

are  so  grown. 


The  indications  and  tally  of  time, 

Perfect    sanity    shows    the    master    among    philosophs, 

Time,  always  without  break,  indicates  itself  in  parts, 

What  always  indicates  the  poet  is  the  crowd  of  the  pleasant 

company   of   singers,   and   their   words, 
The  words  of  the  singers  are  the  hours  or  minutes  of  the  light 

or  dark,  but  the  words  of  the  maker  of  poems  are  the 

general  light  and  dark, 

The  maker  of  poems  settles  justice,  reality,  immortality, 
His  insight  and  power  encircle  things  and  the  human  race, 
He  is  the  glory  and  extract  thus  far  of  things  and  of  the 

human  race. 


144  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  singers  do  not  beget,  only  the  Poet  begets, 

The  singers  are  welcom'd,  understood,  appear  often  enough, 

but  rare  has  the  day  been,  likewise  the  spot,  of  the  birth 

of  the  maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer 
(Not  every  century  nor  every  five  centuries  has  contain'd  such 

a  day,  for  all  its  names). 

The  singers  of  successive  hours  of  centuries  may  have 
ostensible  names,  but  the  name  of  each  of  them  is  one  of 
the  singers, 

The  name  of  each  is,  eye-singer,  ear-singer,  head-singer,  sweet- 
singer,  night-singer,  parlour-singer,  love-singer,  weird- 
singer,  or  something  else. 

All  this  time  and  at  all  times  wait  the  words  of  true  poems, 

The  words  of  true  poems  do  not  merely  please, 

The  true  poets  are  not  followers  of  beauty  but  the  august 

masters  of  beauty; 
The  greatness   of   sons   is   the  exuding  of   the  greatness  of 

mothers  and  fathers, 
The  words  of  true  poem?  are  the  tuft  and  final  applause  of 

science. 

Divine  instinct,  breadth  of  vision,  the  law  of  reason,  health, 

rudeness  of  body,  withdrawnness, 
Gaiety,  sun-tan,  air-sweetness,  such  are  some  of  the  words  of 

poems. 

The  sailor  and  traveller  underlie  the  maker  of  poems,  the 

Answerer, 
The  builder,  geometer,  chemist,  anatomist,  phrenologist,  artist, 

all  these  underlie  the  maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer. 

The  words  of  the  true  poems  give  you  more  than  poems, 
They  give  you  to  form  for  yourself  poems,  religions,  politics, 

war,   peace,   behaviour,   histories,    essays,   daily    life,    and 

everything  else, 

They  balance  ranks,  colours,  races,  creeds,  and  the  sexes, 
They  do  not  seek  beauty,  they  are  sought, 
For  ever  touching  them  or  close  upon  them  follows  beauty, 

longing,  fain,  love-sick. 

They  prepare  for  death,  yet  are  they  not  the  finish,  but  rather 
the  outset, 


Song  of  the  Answerer  145 

They  bring  none  to  his  or  her  terminus  or  to  be  content  and  full, 
Whom  they  take  they  take  into  space  to  behold  the  birth  of 

stars,  to  learn  one  of  the  meanings, 

To  launch  off  with  absolute  faith,  to  sweep  through  the  cease 
less  rings  and  never  be  quiet  again. 


OUR  OLD  FEUILLAGE 

ALWAYS  our  old   feuillage! 

Always  Florida's  green  peninsula — always  the  priceless  delta  of 

Louisiana — always  the  cotton-fields  of  Alabama  and  Texas, 
Always  California's  golden  hills  and  hollows,  and  the  silver 

mountains  of  New  Mexico — always  soft-breath'd  Cuba, 
Always  the  vast  slope  drain'd  by  the  Southern  sea,  inseparable 

with  the  slopes  drain'd  by  the  Eastern  and  Western  seas, 
The  area  the  eighty-third  year  of  these  States,  the  three  and  a 

half  millions  of  square  miles, 
The  eighteen  thousand  miles  of  sea-coast  and  bay-coast  on  the 

main,  the  thirty  thousand  miles  of  river  navigation, 
The  seven  millions  of  distinct  families  and  the  same  number 

of   dwellings — always   these,  and   more,   branching    forth 

into  numberless  branches, 
Always  the  free  range  and  diversity — always  the  continent  of 

Democracy ; 
Always  the  prairies,  pastures,   forests,  vast  cities,  travellers, 

Kanada,  the  snows ; 
Always  these  compact  lands  tied  at  the  hips  with  the  belt 

stringing  the  huge  oval   lakes; 
Always  the  West  with  strong  native  persons,  the  increasing 

density  there,  the  habitans,  friendly,  threatening,  ironical, 

scorning  invaders ; 
All  sights,  South,  North,  East — all  deeds,  promiscuously  done 

at  all  times, 
All  characters,  movements,  growths,  a  few  noticed,  myriads 

unnoticed, 

Through  Mannahatta's  streets  I  walking,  these  things  gathering, 
On  interior  rivers  by  night  in  the  glare  of  pine  knots,  steam 
boats  wooding  up, 
Sunlight  by  day  on  the  valley  of  the  Susquehanna,  and  on  the 

valleys  of  the  Potomac  and  Rappahannock,  and  the  val 
leys  of  the  Roanoke  and  Delaware, 
In  their  northerly  wilds  beasts  of  prey  haunting  the  Adiron- 

dacks,  the  hills,  or  lapping  the  Saginaw  waters  to  drink, 
In  a  lonesome  inlet  a  sheldrake  lost  from  the  flock,  sitting  on 

the  water  rocking  silently, 

146 


Our  Old  Feuillage  147 

In  farmers'  barns  oxen  in  the  stable,  their  harvest  labour  done, 
they  rest  standing,  they  are  too  tired, 

Afar  on  arctic  ice  the  she-walrus  lying  drowsily  while  her 
cubs  play  around, 

The  hawk  sailing  where  men  have  not  yet  sail'd,  the  farthest 
polar  sea,  ripply,  crystalline,  open,  beyond  the  floes, 

White  drift  spooning  ahead  where  the  ship  in  the  tempest  dashes. 

On  solid  land  what  is  done  in  cities  as  the  bells  strike  midnight 
together, 

In  primitive  woods  the  sounds  there  also  sounding,  the  howl  of 
the  wolf,  the  scream  of  the  panther,  and  the  hoarse  bellow 
of  the  elk, 

In  winter  beneath  the  hard  blue  ice  of  Moosehead  lake,  in 
summer  visible  through  the  clear  waters,  the  great  trout 
swimming, 

In  lower  latitudes  in  warmer  air  in  the  Carolinas  the  large 
black  buzzard  floating  slowly  high  beyond  the  tree-tops, 

Below,  the  red  cedar  festoon'd  with  tylandria,  the  pines  and 
cypresses  growing  out  of  the  white  sand  that  spreads  far 
and  flat, 

Rude  boats  descending  the  big  Pedee,  climbing  plants,  para 
sites  with  colour'd  flowers  and  berries  enveloping  huge  trees, 

The  waving  drapery  on  the  live-oak  trailing  long  and  low, 
noiselessly  waved  by  the  wind, 

The  camp  of  Georgia  wagoners  just  after  dark,  the  supper- 
fires  and  the  cooking  and  eating  by  whites  and  negroes, 

Thirty  or  forty  great  wagons,  the  mules,  cattle,  horses,  feed 
ing  from  troughs, 

The  shadows,  gleams,  up  under  the  leaves  of  the  old  syca 
more-trees,  the  flames  with  the  black  smoke  from  the 
pitch-pine  curling  and  rising; 

Southern  fishermen  fishing,  the  sounds  and  inlets  of  North 
Carolina's  coast,  the  shad-fishery  and  the  herring-fishery, 
the  large  sweep-seines,  the  windlasses  on  shore  work'd  by 
horses,  the  clearing,  curing,  and  packing-houses; 

Deep  in  the  forest  in  piney  woods  turpentine  dropping  from 
the  incisions  in  the  trees,  there  are  the  turpentine  works, 

There  are  the  negroes  at  work  in  good  health,  the  ground  in 
all  directions  is  cover'd  with  pine  straw; 

In  Tennessee  and  Kentucky  slaves  busy  in  the  coalings,  at  the 
forge,  by  the  furnace-blaze,  or  at  the  corn-shucking, 

In  Virginia,  the  planter's  son  returning  after  a  long  absence, 
joyfully  welcom'd  and  kiss'd  by  the  aged  mullato  nurse, 


148  (Leaves  of  Grass 

On  rivers  boatmen  safely  moor'd  at  nightfall  in  their  boats 
under  shelter  of  high  banks, 

Some  of  the  younger  men  dance  to  the  sound  of  the  banjo  or 
fiddle,  others  sit  on  the  gunwale  smoking  and  talking; 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  mocking-bird,  the  American  mimic, 
singing  in  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp. 

There  are  the  greenish  waters,  the  resinous  odour,  the  plen 
teous  moss,  the  cypress-tree,  and  the  juniper-tree; 

Northward,  young  men  of  Mannahatta,  the  target  company 
from  an  excursion  returning  home  at  evening,  the  musket- 
muzzles  all  bear  bunches  of  flowers  presented  by  women ; 

Children  at  play,  or  on  his  father's  lap  a  young  boy  fallen 
asleep  (how  his  lips  move!  how  he  smiles  in  his  sleep!)  ; 

The  scout  riding  on  horseback  over  the  plains  west  of  the 
Mississippi,  he  ascends  a  knoll  and  sweeps  his  eyes  around ; 

California  life,  the  miner,  bearded,  dress'd  in  his  rude  costume, 
the  stanch  California  friendship,  the  sweet  air,  the  graves 
one  in  passing  meets  solitary  just  aside  the  horse-path; 

Down  in  Texas  the  cotton-field,  the  negro-cabins,  drivers  driv 
ing  mules  or  oxen  before  rude  carts,  cotton  bales  piled 
on  banks  and  wharves; 

Encircling  all,  vast-darting  up  and  wide,  the  American  Soul, 
with  equal  hemispheres,  one  Love,  one  Dilation  or  Pride; 

In  arriere  the  peace-talk  with  the  Iroquqis  the  aborigines,  the 
calumet,  the  pipe  of  good-will,  arbitration,  and  indorse 
ment, 

The  sachem  blowing  the  smoke  first  toward  the  sun  and  then 
toward  the  earth, 

The  drama  of  the  scalp-dance  enacted  with  painted  faces  and 
guttural  exclamations, 

The  setting  out  of  the  war-party,  the  long  and  stealthy  march, 

The  single  file,  the  swinging  hatchets,  the  surprise  and  slaugh 
ter  of  enemies; 

All  the  acts,  scenes,  ways,  persons,  attitudes  of  these  States, 
reminiscences,  institutions, 

AH  these  States  compact,  every  square  mile  of  these  States 
without  excepting  a  particle; 

Me  pleas'd,  rambling  in  lanes  and  country  fields,  Paumanok's 
fields, 

Observing  the  spiral  flight  of  two  little  yellow  butterflies 
shuffling  between  each  other,  ascending  high  in  the  air, 

The  darting  swallow,  the  destroyer  of  insects,  the  fall  traveller 
southward  but  returning  northward  early  in  the  spring, 


Our  Old  Feuillage  149 

The  country  boy  at  the  close  of  the  day  driving  the  herd  of 
cows  and  shouting  to  them  as  they  loiter  to  browse  by 
the  roadside, 

The  city  wharf,  Boston,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Charleston, 
New  Orleans,  San  Francisco, 

The  departing  ships  when  the  sailors  heave  at  the  capstan; 

Evening — me  in  my  room — the  setting  sun, 

The  setting  summer  sun  shining  in  my  open  window,  showing 
the  swarm  of  flies,  suspended,  balancing  in  the  air  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  darting  athwart,  up  and  down,  casting 
swift  shadows  in  specks  on  the  opposite  wall  where  the 
shine  is; 

The  athletic  American  matron  speaking  in  public  to  crowds 
of  listeners, 

Males,  females,  immigrants,  combinations,  the  copiousness,  the 
individuality  of  the  States,  each  for  itself — the  money 
makers, 

Factories,  machinery,  the  mechanical  forces,  the  windlass,  lever, 
pulley,  all  certainties, 

The  certainty  of  space,  increase,  freedom,  futurity, 

In  space  the  sporades,  the  scatter'd  islands,  the  stars — on  the 
firm  earth,  the  lands,  my  lands, 

O  lands!  all  so  dear  to  me — what  you  are  (whatver  it  is), 
I  putting  it  at  random  in  these  songs,  become  a  part 
of  that,  whatever  it  is, 

Southward  there,  I  screaming,  with  wings  slow  flapping,  with 
the  myriads  of  gulls  wintering  along  the  coasts  of  Florida, 

Otherways  there  atwixt  the  banks  of  the  Arkansaw,  the  Rio 
Grande,  the  Neuces,  the  Brazos,  the  Tombigbee,  the  Red 
River,  the  Saskatchawan  or  the  Osage,  I  with  the  spring 
waters  laughing  and  skipping  and  running, 

Northward,  on  the  sands,  on  some  shallow  bay  of  Paumanok, 
I  with  parties  of  snowy  herons  wading  in  the  wet  to  seek 
worms  and  aquatic  plants, 

Retreating,  triumphantly  twittering,  the  king-bird,  from  pierc 
ing  the  crow  with  its  bill,  for  amusement — and  I  tri 
umphantly  twittering, 

The  migrating  flock  of  wild  geese  alighting  in  autumn  to  re 
fresh  themselves,  the  body  of  the  flock  feed,  the  sentinels 
outside  move  around  with  erect  heads  watching,  and  are 
from  time  to  time  reliev'd  by  other  sentinels — and  I  feed 
ing  and  taking  turns  with  the  rest, 


150  Leaves  of  Grass 

In  Kanadian  forests  the  moose,  large  as  an  ox,  corner'd  by 
hunters,  rising  desperately  on  his  hind-feet,  and  plunging 
with  his  fore-feet,  the  hoofs  as  sharp  as  knives — and  I, 
plunging  at  the  hunters,  corner'd  and  desperate, 

In  the  Mannahatta,  streets,  piers,  shipping,  store-houses,  and 
the  countless  workmen  working  in  the  shops, 

And  I  too  of  the  Mannahatta,  singing  thereof — and  no  less  in 
myself  than  the  whole  of  the  Mannahatta  in  itself, 

Singing  the  song  of  These,  my  ever-united  lands — my  body 
no  more  inevitably  united,  part  to  part,  and  made  out 
of  a  thousand  diverse  contributions  one  identity,  any 
more  than  my  lands  are  inevitably  united  and  made  ONE 

IDENTITY ; 

Nativities,  climates,  the  grass  of  the  great  pastoral  Plains, 
Cities,  labours,  death,  animals,  products,  war,  good  and  evil— 

these  me, 
These  affording,  in  all  their  particulars,  the  old  feuillage  to 

me  and  to  America,  how  can  I  do  less  than  pass  the  clew 

of  the  union  of  them,  to  afford  the  like  to  you? 
Whoever  you  are!  how  can  I  but  offer  you  divine   leaves, 

that  you  also  be  eligible  as  I  am? 
How  can  I  but  as  here  chanting,  invite  you  for  yourself  to 

collect  bouquets  of  the  incomparable   feuillage  of  these 

States? 


A  SONG  OF  JOYS 

O  TO  make  the  most  jubilant  song! 

Full  of  music — full  of  manhood,  womanhood,  infancy! 

Full  of  common  employments — full  of  grain  and  trees. 

O  for  the  voices  of  animals — O  for  the  swiftness  and  balance 

of  fishes! 

O  for  the  dropping  of  raindrops  in  a  song! 
O  for  the  sunshine  and  motion  of  waves  in  a  song! 

0  joy  of  my  spirit — it  is  uncaged — it  darts  like  lightning! 
It  is  not  enough  to  have  this  globe  or  a  certain  time, 

1  will  have  thousands  of  globes  and  all  time. 

O  the  engineer's  joys!  to  go  with  a  locomotive! 

To  hear  the  hiss  of  steam,,  the  merry  shriek,  the  steam-whistle, 

the  laughing  locomotive! 
To  push  with  resistless  way  and  speed  off  in  the  distance. 

O  the  gleesome  saunter  over  fields  and  hillsides ! 

The  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  commonest  weeds,  the  moist 

fresh  stillness  of  the  woods, 
The  exquisite  smell  of  the  earth  at  daybreak,  and  all  through 

the  forenoon. 

O  the  horseman's  and  horsewoman's  joys! 
The  saddle,  the  gallop,  the  pressure  upon  the  seat,  the  cool 
gurgling  by  the  ears  and  hair. 

0  the  fireman's  joys! 

1  hear  the  alarm  at  dead  of  night, 

I  hear  bells,  shouts !  I  pass  the  crowd,  I  run ! 

The  sight  of  the  flames  maddens  me  with  pleasure. 

O  the  joy  of  the  strong-brawn'd  fighter,  towering  in  the  arena 

in  perfect  condition,  conscious  of  power,  thirsting  to  meet 

his  opponent. 
O  the  joy  of  that  vast  elemental  sympathy  which  only  the 

human    soul    is   capable   of   generating   and    emitting   tn 

steady  and  limitless  floods. 

151 


1 52  Leaves  of  Grass 

O  the  mother's  joys! 

The  watching,  the  endurance,  the  precious  love,  the  anguish, 
the  patiently  yielded  life. 

O  the  joy  of  increase,  growth,  recuperation, 
The  joy  of  soothing  and  pacifying,  the  joy  of  concord  and 
harmony. 

O  to  go  back  to  the  place  where  I  was  born, 

To  hear  the  birds  sing  once  more, 

To  ramble  about  the  house  and  barn  and  over  the  fields  once 

more, 
And  through  the  orchard  and  along  the  old  lanes  once  more. 

0  to  have  been  brought  up  on  bays,  lagoons,  creeks,  or  along 

the  coast, 

To  continue  and  be  employ'd  there  all  my  life, 

The  briny  and  damp  smell,  the  shore,  the  salt  weeds  exposed 
at  low  water, 

The  work  of  fishermen,  the  work  of  the  eel-fisher  and  clam- 
fisher  ; 

1  come  with  my  clam-rake  and  spade,  I  come  with  my  eel- 

spear, 

Is  the  tide  out?   I  join  the  group  of  clam-diggers  on  the  flats, 

I  laugh  and  work  with  them,  I  joke  at  my  work  like  a  mettle 
some  young  man ; 

In  winter  I  take  my  eel-basket  and  eel-spear  and  travel  out  on 
foot  on  the  ice — I  have  a  small  axe  to  cut  holes  in  the  ice, 

Behold  me  well-clothed  going  gaily  or  returning  in  the  after 
noon,  my  brood  of  tough  boys  accompanying  me, 

My  brood  of  grown  and  part-grown  boys,  who  love  to  be  with 
no  one  else  so  well  as  they  love  to  be  with  me, 

By  day  to  work  with  me,  and  by  night  to  sleep  with  me. 

Another  time  in  warm  weather  out  in  a  boat,  to  lift  the 
lobster-pots  where  they  are  sunk  with  heavy  stones  (I 
know  the  buoys), 

0  the  sweetness  of  the  Fifth-month  morning  upon  the  water 

as  I  row  just  before  sunrise  toward  the  buoys, 

1  pull  the  wicker  pots  up  slantingly,  the  dark  green  lobsters 

are   desperate   with   their   claws   as    I   take   them   out,    I 
insert  wooden  pegs  in  the  joints  of  their  pincers, 

I  go  to  all  the  places  one  after  another,  and  then  row  back  to 
the  shore. 


A  Song  of  Joys  153 


There  in  a  huge  kettle  of  boiling  water  the  lobsters  shall  be 
boil'd  till  their  colour  becomes  scarlet. 

Another  time  mackerel-taking, 

Voracious,  mad  for  the  hook,  near  the  surface,  they  seem  to 

fill  the  water  for  miles; 
Another  time  fishing  for  rock-fish  in  Chesapeake  bay,  I  one 

of  the  brown-faced  crew ; 
Another  time  trailing  for  blue-fish  off  Paumanok,  I  stand  with 

braced  body, 
My  left  foot  is  on  the  gunwale,  my  right  arm  throws  far  out 

the  coils  of  slender  rope, 
In  sight  around  me  the  quick  veering  and  darting  of  fifty 

skiffs,  my  companions. 

O  boat  on  the  rivers, 

The  voyage  down  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  superb  scenery,  the 
steamers, 

The  ships  sailing,  the  Thousand  Islands,  the  occasional  timber- 
raft  and  the  raftsmen  with  1  ng-reaching  sweep-oars, 

The  little  huts  on  the  rafts,  and  the  stream  of  smoke  when 
they  cook  supper  at  evening. 

(O  something  pernicious  and  dread  1 

Something  far  away  from  a  puny  and  pious  life! 

Something  unproved!  something  in  a  trance! 

Something  escaped  from  the  anchorage  and  driving  free.) 

O  to  work  in  mines,  or  forging  iron, 

Foundry  casting,  the  foundry  itself,  the  rude  high  roof,  the 

ample  and  shadow'd  space, 
The  furnace,  the  liquid  pour'd  out  and  running. 

O  to  resume  the  joys  of  the  soldier! 

To  feel  the  presence  of  a  brave  commanding  officer — to  feel 

his  sympathy ! 

To  behold  his  calmness — to  be  warm'd  in  the  rays  of  his  smile! 
To  go  to  battle — to  hear  the  bugles  play  and  the  drums  beat! 
To  hear  the  crash  of  artillery — to  see  the  glittering  of  the 

bayonets  and  musket-barrels  in  the  sun! 
To  see  the  men  fall  and  die  and  not  complain ! 
To  taste  the  savage  taste  of  blood— to  be  so  devilish ! 

To  gloat  so  over  the  wounds  and  deaths  of  the  enemy! 


154  Leaves  of  Grass 


0  the  whaleman's  joys!  O  I  cruise  my  old  cruise  again! 

1  feel  the  ship's  motion  under  me,  I  feel  the  Atlantic  breezes 

fanning  me, 
I  hear  the  cry  again  sent  down  from  the  mast-head,  There— 

she  blows! 
Again   I    spring  up   the   rigging   to   look  with   the   rest — we 

descend,  wild  with  excitement, 
I  leap  in  the  lower'd  boat,  we  row  toward  our  prey  where 

he  lies, 
We  approach  stealthy  and  silent,  I  see  the  mountainous  mass, 

lethargic,  basking, 
I  see  the  harpooner  standing  up,  I  see  the  weapon  dart  from 

his  vigorous  arm; 

0  swift  again  far  out  in  the  ocean  the  wounded  whale,  set 

tling,  running  to  windward,  tows  me, 
Again  I  see  him  rise  to  breathe,  we  now  close  again, 

1  see  a  lance  driven  through  his  side,  press'd  deep,  turn'd  in 

the  wound, 

Again  we  back  off,  I  see  him  settle  again,  the  life  is  leaving 
him  fast, 

As  he  rises  he  spouts  blood,  I  see  him  swim  in  circles  nar 
rower  and  narrower,  swifly  cutting  the  water — I  see 
him  die, 

He  gives  one  convulsive  leap  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  and 
then  falls  flat  and  still  in  the  bloody  foam. 

O  the  old  manhood  of  me,  my  noblest  joy  of  all ! 
My  children  and  grand-children,   my  white  hair  and  beard, 
My  largeness,  calmness,  majesty,  out  of  the  long  stretch  of 
my  life. 

0  ripen'd  joy  of  womanhood!  O  happiness  at  last! 

1  am  more  than  eighty  years  of  age,  I  am  the  most  venerable 

mother, 

How  clear  is  my  mind — how  all  people  draw  nigh  to  me ! 
What  attractions  are  these  beyond  any  before?  what  bloom 

more  than  the  bloom  of  youth? 
What  beauty  is  this  that  descends  upon  me  and  rises  out  of  me? 

O  the  orator's  joys! 

To  inflate  the  chest,  to  roll  the  thunder  of  the  voice  out  from 

the  ribs  and  throat, 

To  make  the  people  rage,  weep,  hate,  desire,  with  yourself, 
To  lead  America — to  quell  America  with  a  great  tongue. 


A  Song  of  Joys 

O  the  joy  of  my  soul  leaning  pois'd  on  itself,  receiving  iden 
tity  through  materials  and  loving  them,  observing  char 
acters  and  absorbing  them, 

My  soul  vibrated  back  to  me  from  them,  from  sight,  hear 
ing,  touch,  reason,  articulation,  comparison,  memory,  and 
the  like, 

The  real  life  of  my  senses  and  flesh  transcending  my  senses 
and  flesh, 

My  body  done  with  materials  my  sight  done  with  my  mate 
rial  eyes, 

Proved  to  me  this  day  beyond  cavil  that  it  is  not  my  material 
eyes  which  finally  see, 

Nor  my  material  body  which  finally  loves,  walks,  laughs, 
shouts  embraces,  procreates. 

O  the  farmer's  joys ! 

Ohioan's,    Illinoisian's,    Wisconsinese',    Kanadian's,    lowan's, 

Kansian's,  Missourian's,  Oregonese'  joys! 
To  rise  at  peep  of  day  and  pass  forth  nimbly  to  work, 
To  plough  land  in  the  fall  for  winter-sown  crops, 
To  plough  land  in  the  spring  for  maize, 
To  train  orchards,  to  graft  the  trees,  to  gather  apples  in  the 

fall. 

O  to  bathe  in  the  swimming-bath,  or  in  a  good  place  along 

shore, 
To  splash  the  water!  to  walk  ankle-deep,  or  race  naked  along 

the  shore. 

O  to  realise  space ! 

The  plenteousness  of  all,  that  there  are  no  bounds, 

To  emerge  and  be  of  the  sky,  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  flying 

clouds,  as  one  with  them. 
O  the  joy  of  a  manly  self-hood! 
To  be  servile  to  none,  to  defer  to  none,  not  to  any  tyrant 

known  or  unknown, 

To  walk  with  erect  carriage,  a  step  springy  and  elastic, 
To  look  with  calm  gaze  or  with  a  flashing  eye, 
To  speak  with  a  full  and  sonorous  voice  out  of  a  broad  chest, 
To  confront  with  your  personality  all  the  other  personalities 

of  the  earth. 

Know'st  thou  the  excellent  Joys  of  youth? 
Joys   of  the  dear  companions  and   of  the  merry  word   and 
laughing  face? 


i  $6  Leaves  of  Grass 

Joy  of  the  glad  light-beaming  day,  joy  of  the  wide-breath'd 

games  ? 
Joy  of   sweet  music    joy  of   the   lighted  ball-room   and   the 

dancers  ? 
Joy  of  the  plenteous  dinner,  strong  carouse,  and  drinking? 

Yet  O  my  soul  supreme! 

Know'st  thou  the  joys  of  pensive  thought? 

Joys  of  the  free  and  lonesome  heart,  the  tender,  gloomy  heart? 

Joys  of  the  solitary  walk,   the   spirit  bow'd  yet   proud,   the 

suffering  and  the  struggle? 
The  agonistic  throes,  the  ecstasies,  joys  of  the  solemn  musings 

day  or  night? 
Joys  of  the  thought  of  Death,  the  great  spheres,  Time  and 

Space? 
Prophetic  joys  of  better,  loftier  love's  ideals,  the  divine  wife, 

the  sweet,  eternal,  perfect  comrade? 
Joys  all  thine  own  undying  one,  joys  worthy  thee,  O  soul. 

O  while  I  live  to  be  the  ruler  of  life,  not  a  slave, 

To  meet  life  as  a  powerful  conqueror, 

No  fumes,  no  ennui,  no  more  complaints  or  scornful  criticisms, 

To  these  proud  laws  of  the  air,  the  water  and  the  ground, 

proving  my  interior  soul  impregnable, 
And  nothing  exterior  shall  ever  take  command  of  me. 

For  not  lifers  joys  alone  I  sing,  repeating — the  joy  of  death! 

The  beautiful  touch  of  Death,  soothing  and  benumbing  a  few 
moments,  for  reasons, 

Myself  discharging  my  excrementitious  body  to  be  burn'd, 
render'd  to  powder,  or  buried, 

My  real  body  doubtless  left  to  me  for  other  spheres, 

My  voided  body  nothing  more  to  me,  returning  to  the  purifica 
tions,  further  offices,  eternal  uses  of  the  earth. 

O  to  attract  by  more  than  attraction ! 

How  it  is  I  know  not — yet  behold !  the  something  which  obeys 

none  of  the  rest, 

It  is  offensive,  never  defensive — yet  how  magnetic  it  draws. 
O  to  struggle  against  great  odds,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted! 
To  be  entirely  alone  with  them,  to  find  how  much  one  can  stand ! 
To  look  strife,  torture,  prison,  popular  odium,  face  to  face ! 
To  mount  the  scaffold,  to  advance  to  the  muzzles  of  guns 

with  perfect  nonchalance! 
To  be  indeed  a  God! 


A  Song  of  Joys  157 

O  to  sail  to  sea  in  a  ship ! 

To  leave  this  steady  unendurable  land, 

To  leave  the  tiresome  sameness  of  the  streets,  the  sidewalks 

and  the  houses, 
To  leave  you,  O  you  solid  motionless  land,  and  entering  a 

ship, 
To  sail  and  sail  and  sail ! 

O  to  have  life  henceforth  a  poem  of  new  joys! 

To  dance,  clap  hands,  exult,  shout,  skip,  leap,  roll  on,  float  on ! 

To  be  a  sailor  of  the  world  bound  for  all  ports, 

A  ship  itself  (see  indeed  these  sails  I  spread  to  the  sun  and 

air), 
A  swift  and  swelling  ship  full  of  rich  words,  full  of  joys. 


SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE 

i 

WEAPON  shapely,  naked,  wan, 

Head  from  the  mother's  bowels  drawn, 

Wooded  flesh  and  metal  bone,  limb  only  one  and  lip  only  one, 

Grey-blue   leaf    by   red-heat   grown,    helve   produced    from  a 

little  seed  sown, 

Resting  the  grass  amid  and  upon, 
To  be  lean'd  and  to  lean  on. 

Strong   shapes    and    attributes   of    strong    shapes,    masculine 

trades,  sights,  and  sounds, 

Long  varied  train  of  an  emblem,  dabs  of  music, 
Fingers  of  the  organist  skipping  staccato  over  the  keys  of 

the  great  organ. 


Welcome  are  all  earth's  lands,  each  for  its  kind, 

Welcome  are  lands  of  pine  and  oak, 

Welcome  are  lands  of  the  lemon  and   fig, 

Welcome  are  land  of  gold, 

Welcome  are  lands   of   wheat   and   maize,   welcome   those  of 

the  grape, 

Welcome  are  lands  of  sugar  and  rice, 
Welcome  the  cotton-lands,  welcome  those  of  the  white  potato 

and  sweet  potato, 

Welcome  are  mountains,  flats,  sands,  forests,  prairies, 
Welcome  the  rich  borders  of  rivers,  table-lands,  openings, 
Welcome  the   measureless   grazing-lands,   welcome   the   teem 
ing  soil  of  orchards,  flax,  honey,  hemp ; 
Welcome  just  as  much  the  other  more  hard-faced  lands, 
Lands  rich  as  land  of  gold  or  wheat  and  fruit  lands, 
Lands  of  mines,  lands  of  the  manly  and  rugged  ores, 
Lands  of  coal,  copper,  led,  tin,  zinc, 
Lands  of  iron — lands  of  the  make  of  the  axe. 

158 


Song  of  the  Broad-Axe  159 

3 

The  log  at  the  wood-pile,  the  axe  supported  by  it, 

The  sylvan  hut,  the  vine  over  the  doorway,  the  space  clear'd 

for  a  garden, 
The  irregular  tapping  of  rain  down  on  the  leaves  after  the 

storm  is  lull'd, 
The  wailing   and   moaning   at    intervals,  the   thought  of    the 

sea, 
The  thought  of  ships  struck  in  the  storm  and  put  on  their 

beam  ends,  and  the  cutting  away  of  masts, 
The  sentiment   of  the  huge  timbers  of   old-fashion'd   houses 

and   barns, 
The  remember'd  print  or  narrative,  the  voyage  at  a  venture 

of  men,  families,  goods, 

The  disembarkation,  the  founding  of  a  new  city, 
The  voyage  of  those  who  sought  a  New  England  and  found 

it,  the  outset  anywhere, 

The  settlements  of  the  Arkansas,  Colorado,  Ottawa,  Willamette, 
The  slow  progress,  the  scant  fare,  the  axe,  rifle,  saddle-bags ; 
The  beauty  of  all  adventurous  and  daring  persons, 
The  beauty   of    wood-boys,    and    wood-men    with    their   clear 

untrimm'd  faces, 
The  beauty  of  independence,  departure,  actions  that  rely  on 

themselves, 
The  American    contempt    for    statutes    and    ceremonies,    the 

boundless  impatience  of  restraint, 
The  loose   drift   of    character,    the    inkling   through    random 

types,  the  solidification ; 

The  butcher  in  the  slaughter-house,  the  hands  aboard  schoon 
ers  and  sloops,  the  raftsman,  the  pioneer, 
Lumbermen   in   their   winter   camp,   daybreak   in   the   woods, 

stripes   of   snow   on   the   limbs   of    trees,   the   occasional 

snapping, 
The  glad  clear  sound  of  one's  own  voice,  the  merry  song,  the 

natural  life  of  the  woods,  the  strong  day's  work, 
The  blazing  fire  at  night,  the  sweet  taste  of  supper,  the  talk, 

the  bed  of  hemlock-boughs  and  the  bear-skin; 
The  house-builder  at  work  in  cities  or  anywhere, 
The  preparatory  jointing,  squaring,  sawing,  mortising, 
The  hoist-up  of  beams,  the  push  of  them  in  their  places,  lay 
ing  them  regular, 
Setting  the  studs  by  their  tenons  in  the  mortises  according 

as  they  were  prepared, 


160  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  blows  of  mallets  and  hammers,  the  attitudes  of  the  men, 

their  curv'd  limbs, 
Bending,  standing,  astride  the  beams,  driving  in  pins,  holding 

on  by  posts  and  braces, 
The  hook'd  arm  over  the  plate,  the  other  arm  wielding  the 

axe, 

The  floor-men  forcing  the  planks  close  to  be  nail'd, 
Their  postures  bringing  their  weapons  downward  on  the  bearers, 
The  echoes   resounding   through  the  vacant  building; 
The  huge  storehouse  carried  up  in  the  city  well  under  way, 
The  six  framing-men,  two  in  the  middle  and  two  at  each  end, 

carefully  bearing  on  their  shoulders  a  heavy  stick  for  a 

cross-beam, 
The  crowded  line  of  masons  with  trowels  in  their  right  hands 

rapidly  laying  the  long  side-wall,  two  hundred  feet  from 

front  to  rear, 
The  flexible  rise  and  fall  of  backs,  the  continual  click  of  the 

trowels  striking  the  bricks, 
The  bricks  one  after  another  each  laid  so  workmanlike  in  its 

place,  and  set  with  a  knock  of  the  trowel  handle, 
The  piles  of  materials,  the  mortar  on  the  mortar-boards,  and 

the  steady  replenishing  by  the  hod-men ; 
Spar-makei  s  in  the  spar-yard,  the  swarming  row  of  well-grown 

apprentices, 
The  swing  of  their  axes  on  the  square-hew'd  log  shaping  it 

toward  the  shape  of  a  mast, 
The  brisk  short  crackle  of  the  steel  driven  slantingly  into  the 

pine, 

The  butter-colour'd  chips  flying  off  in  great  flakes  and  slivers, 
The  limber  motion  of  brawny  young  arms  and  hips  in  easy 

costumes, 
The  constructor  of  wharves,  bridges,  piers,  bulk-heads,  floats, 

stays  against  the  sea; 
The  city  fireman,  the  fire  that  suddenly  bursts   forth  in  the 

close-pack'd  square, 
The  arriving  engines,  the  hoarse  shouts,  the  nimble  stepping 

and  daring, 
The  strong  command  through  the  fire-trumpets,  the  falling  in 

line,  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  arms  forcing  the  water, 
The  slender,  spasmic,  blue-white  jets,  the  bringing  to  bear  of 

the  hooks  and  ladders  and  their  execution, 
The  crash  and  cut-away  of  connecting  wood-work,  or  through 

floors  if  the  fire  smoulders  under  them, 


Song  of  the  Broad- Axe  161 

The  crowd  with  their  lit  faces  watching,  the  glare  and  dense 

shadows ; 

The  forger  at  his  forge-furnace  and  the  user  of  iron  after  him, 
The  maker  of  the  axe  large  and  small,  and  the  welder  and 

temperer, 
The  chooser  breathing  his  breath  on  the  cold  steel  and  trying 

the  edge  with  his  thumb, 
The  one  who  clean-shapes  the  handle  and  sets  it  firmly  in 

the  socket; 

The  shadowy  processions  of  the  portraits  of  the  past  users  also, 
The  primal  patient  mechanics,  the  architects  and  engineers, 
The  far-off  Assyrian  edifice  and  Mizra  edifice, 
The  Roman  lictors  preceding  the  consuls, 
The  antique  European  warrior  with  his  axe  in  combat, 
The  uplifted  arm,  the  clatter  of  blows  on  the  helmeted  head, 
The  death-howl,  the  limpsy  tumbling  body,  the  rush  of  friend 

and  foe  thither, 

The  siege  of  revolted  lieges  determin'd  for  liberty, 
The  summons  to  surrender,  the  battering  at  castle  gates,  the 

truce  and  parley, 

The  sack  of  an  old  city  in  its  time, 
The  bursting  in  of  mercenaries  and  bigots  tumultuously  and 

disorderly, 

Roar,  flames,  blood,  drunkenness,  madness, 
Goods    freely   rifled    from   houses   and   temples,   screams   of 

women  in  the  gripe  of  brigands, 

Craft  and  thievery  of  camp-followers,  men  running,  old  per 
sons  despairing, 

The  hell  of  war,  the  cruelties  of  creeds, 
The  list  of  all  executive  deeds  and  words  just  or  unjust, 
The  power  of  personality  just  or  unjust 


Muscle  and  pluck  for  ever  1 

What  invigorates  life  invigorates  death, 

And  the  dead  advance  as  much  as  the  living  advance, 

And  the  future  is  no  more  uncertain  than  the  present, 

For  the  roughness  of  the  earth  and  of  man  encloses  as  much 

as  the  delicatesse  of  the  earth  and  of  man, 
And  nothing  endures  but  personal  qualities. 

What  do  you  think  endures? 

Do  you  think  a  great  city  endures  ? 


1 62  Leaves  of  Grass 

Or  a  teeming  manufacturing  state?  or  a  prepared  constitution? 
or  the  best  built  steamships? 

Or  hotels  of  granite  and  iron?  or  any  chef-d'oeuvres  of  en 
gineering,  forts,  armaments  ? 

Away !  these  are  not  to  be  cherish'd  for  themselves, 

They  fill  their  hour,  the  dancers  dance,  the  musicians  play  for 

them, 

The  show  passes,  all  does  well  enough  of  course, 
All  does  very  well  till  one  flash  of  defiance. 

A  great  city  is  that  which  has  the  greatest  men  and  women, 
If  it  be  a  few  ragged  huts  it  is  still  the  greatest  city  in  the 
whole  world. 


The  place  where  a  great  city  stands  is  not  the  place  of  stretch'd 

wharves,  docks,  manufactures,  deposits  or  produce  merely, 
Nor    the    place   of    ceaseless    salutes    of    new-comers    or    the 

anchor-lifters  of  the  departing, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  tallest  and  costliest  buildings  or  shops 

selling  goods  from  the  rest  of  the  earth, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  best  libraries  and  schools,  nor  the  place 

where  money  is  plentiest, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  most  numerous  population. 

Where  the  city  stands  with  the  brawniest  breed  of  orators  and 

bards, 
Where  the  city  stands  that  is  belov'd  by  these,  and  loves  them 

in  return  and  understands  them, 
Where  no  monuments  exist  to  heroes  but  in  the  common  words 

and  deeds, 

Where  thrift  is  in  its  place,  and  prudence  is  in  its  place, 
Where  the  men  and  women  think  lightly  of  the  laws, 
Where  the  slave  ceases,  and  the  master  of  slaves  ceases, 
Where  the  populace  rise  at  once  against  the  never-ending  au 
dacity  of  elected  persons, 
Where  fierce  men  and  women  pour  forth  as  the  sea  to  the 

whistle  of  death  pours  its  sweeping  and  unript  waves, 
Where  outside  authority  enters  always  after  the  precedence  of 

inside  authority, 
Where  the  citizen  is  always  the  head  and  ideal,  and  President, 

Mayor,  Governor  and  what  not,  are  agents  for  pay, 


Song  of  the  Broad-Axe  163 

Where  children  are  taught  to  be  laws  to  themselves,  and  to 

depend  on  themselves, 
Where  equanimity  is  illustrated  in  affairs, 
Where  speculations  on  the  soul  are  encouraged, 
Where  women  walk  in  public  processions   in  the  streets  the 

same  as  the  men, 
Where  they   enter   the  public   assembly  and   take   places    the 

same  as  the  men ; 

Where  the  city  of  the  faithfullest  friends  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  cleanliness  of  the  sexes  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  healthiest  fathers  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  best-bodied  mothers  stands, 
There  the  great  city  stands. 


How  beggarly  appear  arguments  before  a  defiant  deed! 
How  the  floridness  of  the  materials  of  cities  shrivels  before  a 
man's  or  woman's  look. 

All  waits  or  goes  by  default  till  a  strong  being  appears ; 

A  strong  being  is  the  proof  of  the  race  and  of  the  ability 

of  the  universe, 

When  he  or  she  appears  materials  are  overaw'd, 
The  dispute  on  the  soul  stops, 
The  old  customs  and  phrases  are  confronted,  turn'd  back,  or 

laid  away. 

What  is  your  money-making  now?  what  can  it  do  now? 
What  is  your  respectability  now? 

What  are  your  theology,  tuition,  society,  traditions,   statute- 
books,  now? 

Where  are  your  jibes  of  being  now? 
Where  are  your  cavils   about   the   soul   now? 


A  sterile  landscape  covers  the  ore,  there  is  as  good  as  the 

best  for  all  the  forbidding  appearance, 
There  is  the  mine,  there  are  the  miners, 
The  forge-furnace  is  there,  the  melt  is  accomplish'd,  the  ham- 

mersmen  are  at  hand  with  their  tongs  and  hammers, 
What  always  served  and  always  serves  is  at  hand. 


164 


Leaves  of  Grass 


Than  this  nothing  has  better  served,  it  has  served  all, 

Served  the  fluent— tongued  and  subtle-sensed  Greek,  and  long 

ere  the  Greek, 

Served  in  building  the  buildings  that  last  longer  than  any, 
Served  the  Hebrew,  the  Persian,  the  most  ancient  Hindustanee, 
Served  the    mound-raiser    on    the    Mississippi,    served    those 

whose  relics  remain  in  Central  America, 

Served  Albic  temples  in  woods  or  on  plains,  with  unhewn  pil 
lars  and  the  druids, 
Served  the  artificial   clefts,   vast,   high,   silent,   on   the   snow- 

cover'd  hills  of  Scandinavia, 
Served  those   who   time   out  of   mind   made  on   the   granite 

walls  rough  sketches  of  the  sun,  moon,  stars,  ships,  ocean 

waves, 
Served  the  paths  of  the  irruptions  of  the  Goths,  served  the 

pastoral  tribes  and  nomads, 
Served  the  long  distant  Kelt,  served  the  hardy  pirates  of  the 

Baltic, 
Served  before  any  of  those  the  venerable  and  harmless  men 

of   Ethiopia, 
Served  the  making  of  helms  for  the  galleys  of  pleasure  and 

the  making  of  those  for  war, 

Served  all  great  works  on  land  and  all  great  works  on  the  sea, 
For  the  mediaeval  ages  and  before  the  mediaeval  ages, 
Served  not  the  living  only  then  as  now,  but  served  the  dead. 

8 

I  see  the  European  headsman, 

He  stands  mask'd,  clothed  in  red,  with  huge  legs  and  strong 

naked  arms, 
And  leans  on  a  ponderous  axe. 

(Whom  have  you  slaughter'd  lately,  European  headsman? 

Whose  is  that  blood  upon  you  so  wet  and   sticky?) 

I  see  the  clear  sunsets  of  the  martyrs, 

I  see  from  the  scaffolds  the  descending  ghosts, 

Ghosts  of  dead  lords,  uncrown'd  ladies,  impeach'd  ministers, 

rejected  kings, 
Rivals,  traitors,  prisoners,  disgraced  chieftains  and  the  rest. 

I  see  those  who  in  any  land  have  died  for  the  good  cause, 
The  seed  is  spare,  nevertheless  the  crop  shall  never  run  out, 
(Mind  you,  O  foreign  kings,  O  priests,  the  crop  shall  never 
run  out). 


Song  of  the  Broad- Axe  165 

I  see  the  blood  wash'd  entirely  away  from  the  axe, 
Both  blade  and  helve  are  clean, 

They  spirt  no  more  the  blood  of  European  nobles,  they  clasp 
no  more  the  necks  of  queens. 

I  see  the   headsman   withdraw    and    become   useless, 

I  see  the  scaffold  untrodden  and  mouldy,  I  see  no  longer  any 

axe  upon  it, 
1  see  the  mighty  friendly  emblem  of  the  power  of  my  own 

race,  the  newest,  largest  race. 


(America!  I  do  not  vaunt  my  love  for  you, 
I  have  what  I  have.) 

The  axe  leaps! 

The  solid  forest  gives  fluid  utterances, 

They  tumble  forth,  they  rise  and  form, 

Hut,  tent,  landing,  survey, 

Flail,  plough,  pick,  crowbar,  spade, 

Shingle,  rail,  prop,  wainscot,  jamb,  lath,  panel,  gable, 

Citadel,    ceiling,     saloon,    academy,    organ,    exhibition-house, 

library 

Cornice,  trellis,  pilaster,  balcony,  window,  turret,  porch, 
Hoe,   rake,  pitchfork,   pencil,   wagon,    staff,    saw,   jack-plane, 

mallet,  wedge,   rounce, 

Chair,  tub,  hoop,  table,  wicket,  vane,  sash,  floor, 
Work-box,  chest,  string'd  instrument,  boat,  frame,  and  what 

not, 

Capitols  of  States  and  capitol  of  the  nation  of  States, 
Long  stately  rows  in  avenues,  hospitals  for  orphans  or  for  the 

poor  or  sick, 
Manhattan  steamboats  and  clippers  taking  the  measure  of  all 

seas. 

The  shapes  arise! 

Shapes  of  the  using  of  axes  anyhow,  and  the  users  and  aH 

that  neighbours  them, 
Cutters  down  of  wood  and  haulers  of  it  to  the  Penobscot  or 

Kennebec, 
Dwellers  in  cabins  among  the   Californian   mountains  or  by 

the  little  lakes,  or  on  the  Columbia, 


1 66  Leaves  of  Grass 

Dwellers  south  on  the  banks  of  the  Gila  or  Rio  Grande, 
friendly  gatherings,  the  characters  and  fun, 

Dwellers  along  the  St.  Lawrence,  or  north  in  Kanada,  or  down 
by  the  Yellowstone,  dwellers  on  coasts  and  off  coasts, 

Self-fishers,  whalers,  arctic  seamen  breaking  passages  through 
the  ice. 

The  shapes  arise ! 

Shapes  of  factories,  arsenals,   foundries,  markets, 

Shapes  of  the  two-threaded  tracks  of  railroads, 

Shapes  of  the  sleepers  of  bridges,  vast  frameworks,  girders, 
arches, 

Shapes  of  the  fleets  of  barges,  tows,  lake  and  canal  craft, 
river  craft, 

Ship-yards  and  dry-docks  along  the  Eastern  and  Western 
seas,  and  in  many  a  bay  and  by-place, 

The  live-oak  kelsons,  the  pine  planks,  the  spars,  the  hack 
matack-roots  for  knees, 

The  ships  themselves  on  their  ways,  the  tiers  of  scaffolds,  the 
workmen  busy  outside  and  inside, 

The  tools  lying  around,  the  great  auger  and  little  auger,  the 
adze,  bolt,  line,  square,  gauge,  and  bead-plane. 


10 

The  shapes  arise! 

The  shape  measur'd,  saw'd,  jack'd,  join'd,  stain'd, 

The  coffin-shape  for  the  dead  to  lie  within  in  his  shroud, 

The  shape  got  out  in  posts,  in  the  bedstead  posts,  in  the  posts 

of  the  bride's  bed, 

The  shape  of  the  little  trough,  the  shape  of  the  rockers  be 
neath,  the  shape  of  the  babe's  cradle, 
The  shape  of  the  floor-planks,  the  floor-planks   for  dancers' 

feet, 
The  shape  of  the  planks  of  the  family  home,  the  home  of  the 

friendly  parents  and  children, 
The  shape  of  the  roof  of  the  home  of  the  happy  young  man 

and  woman,  the  roof  over  the  well-married  young  man 

and  woman, 
The  roof  over  the  supper  joyously  cook'd  by  the  chaste  wife, 

and  joyously  eaten  by  the  chaste  husband,  content  after 

his  day's  work. 


Song  of  the  Broad- Axe  167 

The  shapes  arise! 

The  shape  of  the  prisoner's  place  in  the  court-room,  and  of 

him  or  her  seated  in  the  place, 

The  shape  of  the  liquor-bar  lean'd  against  by  the  young  rum- 
drinker   and   the   old   rum-drinker, 
The  shape  of  the  shamed  and  angry  stairs  trod  by  sneaking 

footsteps, 
The  shape  of  the  sly  settee,  and  the  adulterous  unwholesome 

couple, 
The  shape  of  the  gambling-board  with  its  devilish  winnings 

and  losings, 
The  shape  of  the  step-ladder  for  the  convicted  and  sentenced 

murderer,     the     murderer     with     haggard    face     and 

pinion'd   arms, 
The  sheriff  at  hand  with  his  deputies,  the  silent  and  white- 

lipp'd  crowd,  the  dangling  of  the  rope. 

The  shapes  arise! 

Shapes  of  doors  giving  many  exits  and  entrances, 
The  door  passing  the  dissever'd   friend  flush'd  and  in  haste, 
The  door  that  admits  good  news  and  bad  news, 
The  door  whence  the  son  left  home  confident  and  puff d  up, 
The  door  he  enter'd  again  from  a  long  and  scandalous  ab 
sence,  diseas'd,  broken  down,  without  innocence,  without 
means. 

/ 
11 

Her  shape  arises, 

She  less  guarded  than  ever,  yet  more  guarded  than  ever, 

The  gross  and  soil'd  she  moves  among  do  not  make  her  gross 

and  soil'd, 
She  knows  the  thoughts  as  she  passes,  nothing  is  conceal'd 

from  her, 

She  is  none  the  less  considerate  or  friendly  therefor, 
She  is  the  best  belov'd,   it  is  without  exception,  she  has  no 

reason  to  fear  and  she  does  not  fear, 
Oaths,  quarrels,  hiccupp'd  songs,  smutty  expressions,  are  idle 

to  her  as  she  passes, 

She  is  silent,  she  is  possess'd  of  herself,  they  do  not  offend  her, 
She  receives  them  as  the  laws  of  Nature  receive  them,  she 

is  strong, 
She  too  is  a  law  of  Nature — there  is  no  law  stronger  than 

she  is. 


1 68  Leaves  of  Grass 

12 

The  main  shapes  arise! 

Shapes  of  Democracy  total,  result  of  centuries, 

Shapes  ever  projecting  other  shapes, 

Shapes  of  turbulent   manly   cities, 

Shapes  of  friends  and  home-givers  of  the  whole  earth, 

Shapes  bracing  the  earth  and  braced  with  the  whole  earth. 


SONG  OF  THE  EXPOSITION 


(An,  little  recks  the  labourer, 

How  near  his  work  is  holding  him  to  God, 

The  loving  Labourer  through  space  and  time.) 

After  all  not  to  create  only,  or  found  only, 
But  to  bring  perhaps  from  afar  what  is  already  founded, 
To  give  it  our  own  identity,  average,  limitless,  free, 
To  fill  the  gross  the  torpid  bulk  with  vital  religious  fire, 
Not  to  repel  or  destroy  so  much  as  accept,  fuse,  rehabilitate, 
To  obey  as  well  as  command,  to  follow  more  than  to  lead, 
These  also  are  the  lessons  of  our  New  World; 
While  how  little  the  New  after  all,  how  much  the  Old,  Old 
World ! 

Long  and  long  has  the  grass  been  growing. 
Long  and  long  has  the  rain  been  falling, 
Long  has  the  globe  been  rolling  round. 


Come  Muse  migrate  from  Greece  and  Ionia, 

Cross  out  please  those  immensely  overpaid  accounts, 

That  matter  of  Troy  and  Achilles'  wrath,  and  Aeneas',  Odys 
seus'  wanderings, 

Placard  "Removed"  and  "To  Let"  on  the  rocks  of  your 
snowy  Parnassus, 

Repeat  at  Jerusalem,  place  the  notice  high  on  Jaffa's  gate 
and  on  Mount  Moriah, 

The  same  on  the  walls  of  your  German,  French,  and  Spanish 
castles,  and  Italian  collections, 

For  know  a  better,  fresher,  busier  sphere,  a  wide,  untried 
domain  awaits,  demands  you. 


Responsive  to  our  summons, 

Or  rather  to  her  long-nurs'd  inclination, 

169 


ijo  Leaves  of  Grass 

Join'd  with  an  irresistible,  natural  gravitation, 

She  comes!  I  hear  the  rustling  of  her  gown, 

I  scent  the  odour  of  her  breath's  delicious  fragrance, 

I  mark  her  step  divine,  her  curious  eyes  a-turning,  rolling, 

Upon  this  very  scene. 

The  dame  of  dames !  can  I  believe  then, 

Those  ancient  temples,  sculptures  classic,  could  none  of  them 

retain  her  ? 
Nor  shades  of  Virgil  and  Dante,  nor  myriad  memories,  poems, 

old  associations,  magnetise  and  hold  on  to  her? 
But  that  she's  left  them  all— and  here? 

Yes,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so, 
I,  my  friends,   if  you   do  not,   can  plainly   see  her, 
The  same  undying  soul  of  earth's,  activity's,  beauty's,  hero 
ism's  expression, 
Out   from  her  evolutions  hither   come,   ended   the  strata  of 

her  former  themes, 

Hidden  and  cover'd  by  to-day's,  foundation  of  to-day's, 
Ended,  deceas'd  through  time,  her  voice  by  Castaly's  fountain, 
Silent   the   broken-lipp'd    Sphynx   in    Egypt,   silent   all   those 

century-baffling  tombs, 
Ended  for  aye  the  epics  of  Asia's,  Europe's  helmeted  warriors, 

ended  the  primitive  call  of  the  muses, 

Calliope's  call  for  ever  closed,  Clio,  Melpomene,  Thalia  dead, 
Ended  the  stately  rhythmus  of  Una  and  Oriana,  ended  the 

quest  of  the  holy  Graal, 

Jerusalem  a  handful  of  ashes  blown  by  the  wind,  extinct, 
The   Crusaders'    streams    of   shadowy    midnight   troops    sped 

with  the  sunrise, 
Amadis,  Tancred,  utterly  gone,  Charlemagne,  Roland,  Oliver 

gone, 
Palmerin,  ogre,  departed,  vanish'd  the  turrets  that  Usk  from 

its  waters  reflected, 
Arthur  vanish'd  with  all  his  knights,  Merlin  and  Lancelot  and 

Galahad,  all  gone,  dissolv'd  utterly  like  an  exhalation; 
Pass'd!  pass'd!   for  us,  for  ever  pass'd,  that  once  so  mighty 

world,  now  void,  inanimate,  phantom  world, 
Embroider'd,  dazzling,   foreign   world,  with  all   its  gorgeous 

legends,  myths, 
Its  kings  and  castles  proud,  its  priests  and  warlike  lords  and 

courtly  dames, 
Pass'd  to  its  chamel  vault,  coffin'd  with  crown  and  armour  on, 


Song  of  the  Exposition  171 

Blazon'd  with  Shakespeare's  purple  page, 
And  dirged  by  Tennyson's  sweet  sad  rhyme. 

I  say  I  see,  my  friends,  if  you  do  not,  the  illustrious  emigre 
(having  it  is  true  in  her  day,  although  the  same,  changed, 
journey'd  considerable), 
Making   directly   for   this   rendezvous,   vigorously   clearing  a 

path  for  herself,  striding  through  the  confusion, 
By  thud  of  machinery  and  shrill  steam-whistle  undismay'd, 
Bluff d  not  a  bit  by  drain-pipe,  gasometers,  artificial  fertilisers, 
Smiling  and  pleas'd  with  palpable  intent  to  stay, 
She's  here,  install'd  amid  the  kitchen  ware! 


But  hold — don't  I  forget  my  manners? 

To  introduce  the  stranger  (what  else  indeed  do  I  live  to  chant 

for?)  to  thee  Columbia; 

In  liberty's  name  welcome  immortal !  clasp  hands, 
And  ever  henceforth  sisters  dear  be  both. 

Fear  not,  O  Muse!  truly  new  ways  and  days  receive,  sur 
round  you, 

I  candidly  confess  a  queer,  queer  race,  of  novel  fashion, 
And  yet  the  same  old  human  race,  the  same  within,  without, 
Faces  and  hearts  the  same,  feelings  the  same,  yearnings  the 

same, 
The  same  old  love,  beauty  and  use  the  same. 


We  do  not  blame  thee,  elder  World,  nor  really  separate  our 
selves  from  thee, 

(Would  the  son  separate  himself   from  the  father?) 

Looking  back  on  thee,  seeing  thee  to  thy  duties,  grandeurs, 
through  the  past  ages  bending,  building, 

We  build  to  ours  to-day. 

Mightier  than  Egypt's  tombs, 
Fairer  than  Grecia's,  Roma's  temples, 
Prouder  than  Milan's  statued,  spired  cathedral, 
More  picturesque  than  Rhenish  castle-keeps, 
We  plan  even  now  to  raise,  beyond  them  all, 
The  great  cathedral  sacred  industry,  no  tomb, 
A  keep  for  life  for  practical  invention. 


172  Leaves  of  Grass 

As  in  a  waking  vision, 

E'en  while  I  chant  I  see  it  rise,  I  scan  and  prophesy  outside 

and  in, 
Its  manifold  ensemble. 

Around  the  palace,  loftier,  fairer,  ampler  than  any  yet, 

Earth's  modern  wonder,  history's  seven  outstripping, 

High  rising  tier  on  tier  with  glass  and  iron  facades, 

Gladdening  the  sun  and  sky,  enhued  in  cheerfullest  hues, 

Bronze,  lilac,  robin's-egg,  marine,  and  crimson, 

Over   whose  golden    roof    shall    flaunt,    beneath    thy    banner 

Freedom, 

The  banners  of  the  States  and  flags  of  every  land, 
A  brood  of  lofty,  fair,  but  lesser  palaces  shall  cluster. 

Somewhere  within  their  walls  shall  all  that  forwards  perfect 

human  life  be  started, 
Tried,  taught,  advanced,  visibly  exhibited. 

Not  only  all  the  world  of  works,  trade,  products, 

But  all  the  workmen  of  the  world  here  to  be  represented. 

Here  shall  you  trace  in  flowing  operation 

In  every  state  of  practical,  busy  movement,  the  rills  of  civil 
isation, 

Materials  here  under  your  eye  shall  change  their  shape  as  if 
by  magic, 

The  cotton  shall  be  pick'd  almost  in  the  very  field, 

Shall  be  dried,  clean'd,  ginn'd,  baled,  spun  into  thread  and 
cloth  before  you, 

You  shall  see  hands  at  work  at  all  the  old  processes  and  all 
the  new  ones, 

You  shall  see  the  various  grains  and  how  flour  is  made  and 
then  bread  baked  by  the  bakers, 

You  shall  see  the  crude  ores  of  California  and  Nevada  pass 
ing  on  and  on  till  they  become  bullion, 

You  shall  watch  how  the  printer  sets  type,  and  learn  what 
a  composing-stick  is, 

You   shall  mark   in  amazement  the  Hoe  press   whirling   its 
cylinder,  shedding  the  printed  leaves  steady  and   fast, 

The   photograph,    model,    watch,    pin,   nail,    shall    be   created 
before  you. 

In   large  calm  halls,   a   stately  museum  shall   teach  you   the 
infinite  lessons  of  minerals, 


Song  of  the  Exposition  173 

In  another,  woods,  plants,  vegetation  shall  be  illustrated— in 
another,  animals,  animal  life  and  development. 

One  stately  house  shall  be  the  music  house, 
Others  for  other  arts — learning,  the  sciences,  shall  all  be  here, 
None  shall  be  slighted,  none  but  shall  here  be  honour'd,  help'd, 
exampled. 


(This,  this  and  these,  America,  shall  be  your  pyramids  and 

obelisks, 

Your  Alexandrian  Pharos,  gardens  of  Babylon, 
Your  temple  at  Olympia.) 

The  male  and  female  many  labouring  not, 
Shall  ever  here  confront  the  labouring  many, 
With  precious  benefits  to  both,  glory  to  all, 
To  thee  America,  and  thee  eternal  Muse. 

And  here  shall  ye  inhabit  powerful  Matrons  I 

In  your  vast  state  vaster  than  all  the  old, 

Echoed  through  long,  long  centuries  to  come, 

To  sound  of  different,  prouder  songs,  with  stronger  themes, 

Practical,  peaceful  life,  the  people's  life,  the  People  themselves, 

Lifted,  illumin'd,  bathed  in  peace — elate,  secure  in  peace. 


Away  with  themes  of  war!  away  with  war  itself! 

Hence  from  my  shuddering  sight  to  never  more  return  that 

show  of  blacken'd,  mutilated  corpses! 
That  hell  unpent  and  raid  of  blood,  fit  for  wild  tigers  or  for 

lop-tongued  wolves,  not  reasoning  men, 
And  in  its  stead  speed  industry's  campaigns, 
With  thy  undaunted  armies,  engineering, 
Thy  pennants  labour,  loosen'd  to  the  breeze, 
Thy  bugles  sounding  loud  and  clear. 

Away  with  old  romance! 

Away  with  novels,  plots  and  plays  of  foreign  courts, 

Away  with  love  verses  sugar'd  in  rhyme,  the  intrigues,  amours 

of  idlers, 
Fitted  for  only  banquets  of  the  night  where  dancers  to  late 

music   slide, 


174  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  unhealthy  pleasures,  extravagant  dissipations  of  the  few. 
With  perfumes,  heat  and  wine,  beneath  the  dazzling  chandeliers. 

To  you,  ye  reverent  sane  sisters, 

I  raise  a  voice  for  far  superber  themes  for  poets  and  for  art, 

To  exalt  the  present  and  the  real, 

To  teach  the  average  man  the  glory  of  his  daily  walk  and 

trade, 
To  sing  in  songs  how  exercise  and  chemical  life  are  never 

to  be  baffled, 

To  manual  work  for  each  and  all,  to  plough,  hoe,  dig 
To  plant  and  tend  the  tree,  the  berry,  vegetables,  flowers, 
For  every  man  to  see  to  it  that  he  really  do  something,  for 

every  woman  too; 

To  use  the  hammer  and  the  saw  (rip,  or  cross-cut), 
To  cultivate  a  turn   for  carpentering,  plastering,   painting, 
To  work  as  tailor,  tailoress,  nurse,  hostler,  porter, 
To  invent  a  little,  something  ingenious,  to  aid  the  washing, 

cooking,  cleaning, 
And  hold  it  no  disgrace  to  take  a  hand  at  them  themselves. 

I  say  I  bring  thee  Muse  to-day  and  here, 

All  occupations,  duties  broad  and  close, 

Toil,  healthy  toil  and  sweat,  endless,  without  cessation, 

The  old,  old  practical  burdens,  interests,  joys, 

The  family,  parentage,  childhood,  husband  and  wife, 

The  house-comforts,  the  house  itself  and  all  its  belongings, 

Food  and  its  preservation,  chemistry  applied  to  it, 

Whatever  forms  the  average,  strong,  complete,  sweet-blooded 

man  or  woman,  the  perfect  longeve  personality, 
And  helps  its  present  life  to  health  and  happiness,  and  shapes 

its  soul, 
For  the  eternal  real  life  to  come. 

With  latest  connections,  works,  the  inter-transportation  of  the 

world, 

Steam-power,  the  great  express  lines,  gas,  petroleum, 
These  triumphs  of  our  time,  the  Atlantic's  delicate  cable, 
The  Pacific   railroad,   the   Suez   Canal,   the   Mont   Cenis   and 

Gothard  and  Hoosac  tunnels,  the  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
This  earth  all  spann'd  with  iron  rails,  with  lines  of  steam 
ships  threading  every  sea, 
Our  own  rondure,  the  current  globe  I  bring. 


Song  of  the  Exposition  175 

8 

And  them  America, 

Thy  offspring  towering  e'er  so  high,  yet  higher  Thee  above 

all  towering, 

With  Victory  on  thy  left,  and  at  thy  right  hand  Law; 
Thou  Union  holding  all,  fusing,  absorbing,  tolerating  all, 
Thee,  ever  thee,  I  sing. 

Thou,  also  thou,  a  World, 

With  all  thy  wide  geographies,  manifold,  different,  distant, 
Rounded  by  thee  in  one — one  common  orbic  language, 
One  common  indivisible  destiny  for  All. 

And  by  the  spells  which  ye  vouchsafe  to  those  your  ministers 

in  earnest, 
I   here  personify   and  call  my  themes,   to   make  them   pass 

before  ye. 

Behold,  America!  (and  thou,  ineffable  guest  and  sister!) 
For  thee  come  trooping  up  thy  waters  and  thy  lands; 
Behold !  thy  fields  and  farms,  thy  far-off  woods  and  mountains, 
As  in  procession  coming. 

Behold,  the  sea  itself, 

And  on  its  limitless,  heaving  breast,  the  ships ; 

See,  where  their  white  sails,  bellying  in  the  wind,  speckle  the 

green  and  blue, 

See,  the  steamers  coming  and  going,  steamers  in  or  out  of  port, 
See,  dusky  and  undulating,  the  long  pennants  of  smoke. 

Behold,  in  Oregon,  far  in  the  north  and  west, 

Or  in  Maine,  far  in  the  north  and  east,  thy  cheerful  axemen, 

Wielding  all  day  their  axes. 

Behold,  on  the  lakes,  thy  pilots  at  their  wheels,  thy  oarsmen, 
How  the  ash  writhes  under  those  muscular  arms! 

There  by  the  furnace,  and  there  by  the  anvil, 
Behold  thy  sturdy  blacksmiths  swinging  their  sledges, 
Overhand  so  steady,  overhand  they  turn  and  fall  with  joyous 

clank, 
Like  a  tumult  of  laughter. 


176  Leaves  of  Grass 

Mark  the  spirit  of  invention  everywhere,  thy  rapid  patents, 

Thy  continual  workshops,  foundries,  risen  or  rising, 

See,  from  their  chimneys  how  the  tall  flame-fires  stream. 

Mark,  thy  interminable  farms,  North,   South, 

Thy  wealthy  daughter-states,  Eastern  and  Western, 

Thy  varied  products  of  Ohio,  Pennsylvania,  Missouri,  Georgia, 

Texas,  and  the  rest, 
Thy  limitless  crops,  grass,  wheat,  sugar,  oil,  corn,  rice,  hemp, 

hops, 
Thy  barns  all  fill'd,  the  endless  freight-train  and  the  bulging 

storehouse, 

The  grapes  that  ripen  on  thy  vines,  the  apples  in  thy  orchards, 
Thy  incalculable  lumber,  beef,  pork,  potatoes,  thy  coal,  thy 

gold  and  silver, 
The  inexhaustible  iron  in  thy  mines. 

All  thine,  O  sacred  Union! 

Ships,  farms,  shops,  barns,  factories,  mines, 

City  and  State,  North,  South,  item  and  aggregate, 

We  dedicate,  dread  Mother,  all  to  thee! 

Protectress  absolute  thou !  bulwark  of  all ! 
For  well  we  know  that  while  thou  givest  each  and  all   (gen 
erous  as  God), 

Without  thee  neither  all  nor  each,  nor  land,  home, 
Nor  ship,  nor  mine,  nor  any  here  this  day  secure, 
Nor  aught,  nor  any  day  secure. 

9 

And  thou,  the  Emblem  waving  over  alll 
Delicate  beauty,  a  word  to  thee  (it  may  be  salutary), 
Remember  thou  hast  not  always  been  as  here  to-day  so  com 
fortably  ensovereign'd, 

In  other  scenes  than  these  have  I  observ'd  thee  flag, 
Not  quite  so  trim  and  whole  and  fresly  blooming  in  folds  of 

stainless  silk, 
But    I    have    seen    thee    bunting,    to    tatters    torn    upon    thy 

splinter'd  staff, 

Or  clutch'd  to  some  young  colour-bearer's  breast  with  desper 
ate  hands, 

Savagely  struggled  for,  for  life  or  death,  fought  over  long, 
'Mid  cannons'  thunder-crash  and  many  a  curse  and  groan  and 
yell,  and  rifle-volleys  cracking  sharp, 


Song  of  the  Exposition  177 

And  moving  masses  as   wild   demons   surging,  and   lives  as 

nothing  risk'd, 
For    thy    mere    remnant   grimed    with    dirt    and    smoke   and 

sopp'd  in  blood, 
For  sake  of  that,  my  beauty,  and  that  thou  mipht'st  daily  as 

now  secure  up  there, 
Many  a  good  man  have  I  seen  go  under. 

Now  here  and  these  and  hence  in  peace,  all  thine,  O  Flag! 
And  here  and  hence  for  thee,  O  universal  Musel  and  thou 

for  them! 
And  here  and  hence,  O  Union,  all  the  work  and  workmen 

thine ! 

None  separate  from  thee — henceforth  One  only,  we  and  thou 
(For  the  blood  of  the  children,  what  is  it,  only  the  blood 

maternal  ? 
And  lives  and  works,  what  are  they  all  at  last,  except  the  roads 

to  faith  and  death?) 

While  we  rehearse  our  measureless  wealth,  it  is  for  thee,  dear 

Mother, 

We  own  it  all  and  several  to-day  indissoluble  in  thee; 
Think  not  our  chant,  our  show,  merely  for  products  gross  or 

lucre — it  is  for  thee,  the  soul  in  thee,  electric,  spiritual  1 
Our   farms,   inventions,   crops,   we   own   in   thee  I   cities  and 

States  in  thee! 
Our  freedom  all  in  thee!  our  very  lives  in  thee  I 


SONG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE 


A  CALIFORNIA  song, 

A  prophecy  and  indirection,  a  thought  impalpable  to  breathe 
as  air, 

A  chorus  of  dryads,  fading,  departing,  or  hamadryads  de 
parting, 

A  murmuring,  fateful,  giant  voice,  out  of  the  earth  and  sky, 

Voice  of  a  mighty  dying  tree  in  the  redwood  forest  dense. 

Farewell  my  brethren 

Farewell  O  earth  and  sky,  farewell  ye  neighbouring  waters, 

My  time  has  ended,  my  term  has  come. 

Along  the  northern  coast, 

just  back  from  the  rock-bound  shore  and  the  caves, 

In  the  saline  air  from  the  sea  in  the  Mendocino  country, 

With  the  surge  for  base  and  accompaniment  low  and  hoarse, 

With  crackling  blows  of  axes  sounding  musically  driven  by 

strong  arms, 
Riven  deep  by  the  sharp  tongues  of  the  axes,  there  in  the 

redwood  forest  dense, 
I  heard  the  mighty  tree  its  death-chant  chanting. 

The  choppers  heard  not,  the  camp  shanties  echoed  not, 

The    quick-ear'd    teamsters    and    chain    and    jack-screw    men 

heard  not, 
As  the  wood-spirits  came  from  their  haunts  of  a  thousand 

years  to  join  the  refrain, 
But  in  my  soul  I  plainly  heard. 

Murmuring  out  of  its  myriad  leaves, 
Down  from  its  lofty  top  rising  two  hundred  feet  high, 
Out  of  its  stalwart  trunk  and  limbs,  out  of  its  foot-thick  bark, 
That  chant  of  the  seasons  and  time,  chant  not  of  the  past  only 
but  the  future. 

You  untold  life  of  me, 

And  all  you  venerable  and  innocent  joys, 

178 


Song  of  the  Redwood  Tree  179 

Perennial  hardy  life  of  me  with  joys  'mid  rain  and  many  a 
summer  sun, 

And  the  white  snows  and  night  and  the  wild  winds; 

O  the  great  patient  rugged  joys,  my  soul's  strong  joys  unreck'd 
by  man 

(For  know  I  bear  the  soul  befitting  me,  I  too  have  conscious 
ness,  identity, 

And  all  the  rocks  and  mountains  have,  and  all  the  earth), 

Joys  of  the  life  befitting  me  and  brothers  mine, 

Our  time,  our  term  has  come. 

Nor  yield  we  mournfully  majestic  brothers. 

We  who  have  grandly  fill'd  our  time; 

With  Nature's  calm  content,  with   tacit  huge  delight, 

We  welcome  what  we  wrought  for  through  the  past, 

And  leave  the  field  for  them. 

For  them  predicted  long, 

For  a  superber  race,  they  too  to  grandly  fill  their  time, 

For  them  we  abdicate,  in  them  ourselves  ye  forest  kings! 

In  them  these  skies  and  airs,  these  mountain  peaks,  Shasta, 

Ncvadas, 
These  huge  precipitous  cliffs,  this  amplitude,  these  valleys,  far 

Yosemite, 
To   be  in  them  absorb' d,  assimilated. 

Then  to  a  loftier  strain, 
Still  prouder,  more  ecstatic  rose  the  chant, 
As  if  the  heirs,  the  deities  of  the  West, 
Joining  with  master-tongue  bore  part. 

Not  wan  from  Asia's  fetiches, 

Nor  red  from  Europe's  old  dynastic  slaughter-house 

(Area  of  murder-plots  of  thrones,  with  scent  left  yet  of  wars 

and  scaffolds  everywhere), 
But  come  from  Nature's  long  and  harmless  throes,  peacefully 

builded  thence, 

These  virgin  lands,  lands  of  the   Western  shore, 
To  the  new  culminating  man,  to  you,  the  empire  new, 
You  promis'd  long,  we  pledge,  we  dedicate. 

You  occult  deep  volitions, 

You  average  spiritual  manhood,  purpose  of  all,  pois'd  on  your 
self,  giving  not  taking  law, 


180  Leaves  of  Grass 

You  womanhood  divine,  mistress  and  source  of  all,  whence 
life  and  love  and  aught  that  comes  from  life  and  love, 

You  unseen  moral  essence  of  all  the  vast  materials  of  America 
{age  upon  age  working  in  death  the  same  as  life}, 

You  that,  sometimes  known,  oftener  unknown,  really  shape 
and  mould  the  Nezv  World}  adjusting  it  to  Time  and 
Space, 

You  hidden  national  will  lying  in  your  abysms,  conceal' d  but 
ever  alert, 

You  past  and  present  purposes  tenaciously  pursued,  maybe  un 
conscious  of  yourselves, 

Unswervd  by  all  the  passing  errors,  perturbations  of  the 
surface; 

You  vital,  universal,  deathless  germs,  beneath  all  creeds,  arts, 
statutest  literatures, 

Here  build  your  homes  for  good,  establish  here,  these  areas 
entire,  lands  of  the  Western  shore, 

We  pledge,  we  dedicate  to  you. 

For  man  of  you,  your  characteristic  race, 

Here  may  he  hardy,  sweet,  gigantic  grow,  here  tower  propor~ 

tionate  to  Nature, 
Here  climb  the  vast  pure  spaces  unconfined,  uncheck'd  by  wall 

or  roof, 

Here  laugh  with  storm  or  sun,  here  joy,  here  patiently  inure, 
Here  heed  himself,  unfold  himself  {not  others'  formulas  heed) , 

here  fill  his  time, 

To  duly  fall,  to  aid,  unreck'd  at  last, 
To  disappear,  to  serve. 

Thus  on  the  northern  coast, 

In  the  echo  of  teamsters'  calls  and  the  clinking  chains,  and 

the  music  of  choppers'  axes, 
The   falling  trunk  and  limbs,  the  crash,   the   muffled   shriek, 

the  groan, 
Such   words  combined   from  the   redwood-tree,   as   of   voices 

ecstatic,  ancient  and  rustling, 

The   century-lasting,   unseen   dryads,   singing,   withdrawing, 
All  their  recesses  of  forests  and  mountains  leaving, 
From  the  Cascade  range  to  the  Wahsatch,  or  Idaho  far,  or 

Utah, 

To  the  deities  of  the  modern  henceforth  yielding, 
The  chorus  and  indications,   the  vistas  of  coming  humanity, 

the  settlements,   features  all, 
In  the  mendocino  woods  I  caught. 


Song  of  the  Redwood  Tree  181 

2 

The  flashing  and  golden  pageant  of  California, 

The  sudden  and  gorgeous  drama,  the  sunny  and  ample  lands, 

The  long  and  varied  stretch  from  Puget  Sound  to  Colorado 

south, 
Lands    bathed    in    sweeter,    rarer,   healthier   air,   valleys    and 

mountain   cliffs, 
The  fields  of   Nature  long  prepared   and   fallow,  the   silent, 

cyclic    chemistry, 
The  slow  and  steady  ages  plodding,  the  unoccupied  surface 

ripening,  the  rich  ores  forming  beneath; 
At  last  the  New  arriving,  assuming,  taking  possession, 
A  swarming  and  busy  race  settling  and  organising  everywhere, 
Ships  coming  in  from  the  whole  round  world,  and  going  out 

to  the  whole  world, 
To  India  and  China  and  Australia  and  the  thousand  island 

paradises  of  the  Pacific, 
Populous  cities,  the  latest  inventions,  the  steamers  on  the  rivers, 

the  railroads,  with  many  a  thrifty  farm,  with  machinery, 
And  wool  and  wheat  and  the  grape,  and  diggings  of  yellow 

gold. 


But  more  in  you  than  these,  lands  of  the  Western  shore 
(These  but  the  means,  the  implements,  the  standing-ground), 
I  see  in  you,  certain  to  come,  the  promise  of  thousands  of 

years,  till  now  deferr'd, 
Promis'd  to  be  fulfill'd,  our  common  kind,  the  race. 

The  new  society  at  last,  proportionate  to  Nature, 

In  man  of  you,  more  than  your  mountain  peaks  or  stalwart 

trees  imperial, 
In  woman  more,   far  more,  than  all  your  gold  or  vines,  or 

even  vital  air. 

Fresh  come,  to  a  new  world  indeed,  yet  long  prepared, 
I  see  the  genius  of  the  modern,  child  of  the  real  and  ideal, 
Clearing  the  ground  for  broad  humanity,  the  true  America, 

heir  of  the  past  so  grand, 
To  build  a  grander  future. 


A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS 


A   SONG   for  occupations! 

In  the  labour  of  engines  and  trades  and  the  labour  of  fields 

1  find  the  developments, 
And  find  the  eternal  meanings. 

Workmen  and  Workwomen ! 

Were  all  educations  practical  and  ornamental  well  display'd 
out  of  me,  what  would  it  amount  to? 

Were  I  as  the  head  teacher,  charitable  proprietor,  wise  states 
man,  what  would  it  amount  to? 

Were  I  to  you  as  the  boss  employing  and  paying  you,  would 
that  satisfy  you? 

The  learn'df  virtuous,  benevolent,  and  the  usual  terms, 
A  man  like  me  and  never  the  usual  terms. 

Neither  a  servant  nor  a  master  I, 

1  take  no  sooner  a  large  price  than  a  small  price,  I  will  have 

my  own  whoever  enjoys  me, 
I  will  be  even  with  you  and  you  shall  be  even  with  me. 

If  you  stand  at  work  in  a  shop,  I  stand  as  nigh  as  the  nighest  in 

the  same  shop, 

If  you  bestow  gifts  on  your  brother  or  dearest  friend  I  de 
mand  as  good  as  your  brother  or  dearest  friend, 
If  your  lover,  husband,  wife,  is  welcome  by  day  or  night,  I 

must  be  personally  as  welcome, 
If  you  become  degraded,  criminal,  ill,  then  I  become  so  for 

your  sake, 
If  you  remember  your   foolish  and  outlaw'd   deeds,   do  you 

think,  I  cannot  remember  my  own   foolish  and  outlaw'd 

deeds? 
If  you  carouse  at  the  table  I  carouse  at  the  opposite  side  of 

the  table, 
If  you  meet  some  stranger  in  the  streets  and  love  him  or  her, 

why  I  often  meet  strangers  in  the  street  and  love  them. 
Why  what  have  you  thought  of  yourself? 
Is  it  you  then  that  thought  yourself  less? 

182 


A  Song  for  Occupations  183 

Is  it  you  that  thought  the  President  greater  than  you? 

Or  the  rich  better  off  than  you?  or  the  educated  wiser  than  you? 

(Because  you  are  greasy  or  pimpled,  or  were  once  drunk,  or  a 

thief, 

Or  that  you  are  diseas'd,  or  rheumatic,  or  a  prostitute, 
Or  from  frivolity  or  impotence,  or  that  you  are  no  scholar 

and  never  saw  your  name  in  print, 
Do  you  give  in  that  you  are  any  less  immortal?) 


Souls  of  men  and  women !  it  is  not  you  I  call  unseen,  unheard, 

untouchable  and  untouching, 
It  is  not  you  I  go  argue  pro  and  con  about,  and  to  settle 

whether  you  are  alive  or  no, 
I  own  publicly  who  you  are,  if  nobody  else  owns. 

Grown,  half -grown  and  babe,  of  this  country  and  every 
country,  indoors  and  outdoors,  one  just  as  much  as  the 
other,  I  see, 

And  all  else  behind  or  through  them. 

The  wife,  and  she  is  not  one  jot  less  than  the  husband, 
The  daughter,  and  she  is  just  as  good  as  the  son, 
The  mother,  and  she  is  every  bit  as  much  as  the  father, 

Offspring  of  ignorant  and  poor,  boys  apprenticed  to  trades,, 
Young  fellows  working  on  farms  and  old  fellows  working,  on 

farms, 

Sailor-men,  merchant-men,  coasters,  immigrants, 
All  these  I  see,  but  nigher  and  farther  the  same  I  see,,. 
None  shall  escape  me  and  none  shall  wish  to  escape  me, 

1  bring  what  you  much  need  yet  always  have, 
Not  money,  amours,  dress,  eating,  erudition,  but  as  good, 
I  send  no  agent  or  medium,  offer  no  representative  of  value* 
but  offer  the  value  itself. 

There  is  something  that  comes  to  one  now  and  perpetually, 

It  is  not  what  is  printed,  preach'd,  discussed,  it  eludes  dis 
cussion  and  print, 

It  is  not  to  be  put  in  a  book,  it  is  not  in  this  book,. 

It  is  for  you  whoever  you  are,  it  is  no  farther  from  you  than 
your  hearing  and  sight  are  from  you, 

It  is  hinted  by  nearest,  commonest,  readiest,  it  is  ever  pro 
voked  by  them. 


ii  84 


Leaves  of  Grass 


You  may  read  in  many  languages,  yet  read  nothing  about  it, 
You  may  read  the  President's  message  and  read  nothing  about 

it  there, 
Nothing  in  the  reports  from  the  State  department  or  Treasury 

department,  or  in  the  daily  papers  or  weekly  papers. 
Or  in  the  census  or  revenue  returns,  prices  current,  or  any 

accounts  of  stock. 


The  sun  and  stars  that  float  in  the  open  air, 

The  apple-shaped  earth  and  we  upon  it,  surely  the  drift  of 

them  is  something  grand, 
I  do  not  know  what  it  is  except  that  it  is  grand,  and  that  it  is 

happiness, 
And  that  the  enclosing  purport  of  us  here  is  not  a  speculation 

or  bon-mot  or  reconnoissance, 
And  that  it  is  not  something  which  by  luck  may  turn  out  well 

for  us,  and  without  luck  must  be  a  failure  for  us, 
And  not  something  which  may  yet  be  retracted  in  a  certain 

contingency. 

The  light  and  shade,  the  curious  sense  of  body  and  identity, 

the  greed  that  with  perfect  complaisance  devours  all  things, 
The  endless  pride  and  outstretching  of  man,  unspeakable  joys 

and  sorrows, 
The  wonder  every  one  sees  in  every  one  else  he  sees,  and  the 

wonders  that  fill  each  minute  of  time  for  ever, 
What  have  you  reckon'd  them  for,  camerado? 
Have  you  reckon'd  them  for  your  trade  or  farm-work?  or  for 

the  profits  of  your  store? 
Or  to  achieve  yourself  a  position?   or  to   fill  a  gentleman's 

leisure,  or  a  lady's  leisure? 

Have  you  reckon'd  that  the  landscape  took  substance  and 
form  that  it  might  be  painted  in  a  picture? 

Or  men  and  women  that  they  might  be  written  of,  and  songs 
sung? 

Or  the  attraction  of  gravity,  and  the  great  laws  and  harmoni 
ous  combinations  and  the  fluids  of  the  air,  as  subjects  for 
the  savans? 


A  Song  for  Occupations  185 

Or  the  brown  land  and  the  blue  sea  for  maps  and  charts? 
Or  the   stars   to   be  put   in   constellations  and   named   fancy 

names  ? 
Or  that  the  growth  of    seeds  is    for   agricultural  tables,   or 

agriculture   itself? 

Old  institutions,  these  arts,  libraries,  legends,  collections,  and 
the  practice  handed  along  in  manufactures,  will  we  rate 
them  so  high? 

Will  we  rate  our  cash  and  business  high?  I  have  no  objection, 
I  rate  them  as  high  as  the  highest — then  a  child  born  of  a 
woman  and  man  I   rate  beyond  all   rate. 

We  thought  our  Union  grand,  and  our  Constitution  grand, 
I  do  not  say  they  are  not  grand  and  good,  for  they  are, 
I  am  this  day  just  as  much  in  love  with  them  as  you, 
Then  I  am  in  love  with  You,  and  with  all  my  fellows  upon 
the  earth. 

We  consider  bibles  and  religions  divine — I  do  not  say  they  are 

not  divine, 
I  say  they  have  all  grown  out  of  you,  and  may  grow  out  of 

you  still, 

It  is  not  they  who  give  the  life,  it  is  you  who  give  the  life, 
Leaves  are  not  more  shed  from  the  trees,  or  trees  from  the 

earth,  than  they  are  shed  out  of  you. 


The  sun  of  all  known  reverence  I  add  up  in  you  whoever 

you  are, 
The  President  is  there  in  the  White  House  for  you,  it  is  not 

you  who  are  here  for  him, 
The  Secretaries  act  in  their  bureaus  for  you,  not  you  here  for 

them, 

The  Congress  convenes  every  Twelfth-month  for  you, 
Laws,  courts,  the  forming  of  States,  the  charters  of  cities,  the 

going  and  coming  of  commerce  and  mails,  are  all  for  you. 

List  close  my  scholars  dear, 

Doctrines,  politics  and  civilisation  exurge  from  you, 
Sculpture  and  monuments  and  anything  inscribed  anywhere 
are  tallied  in  you. 


1 86  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  gist  of  histories  and  statistics  as  far  back  as  the  records 
reach  is  in  you  this  hour,  and  myths  and  tales  the  same, 

If  you  were  not  breathing  and  walking  here,  where  would 
they  all  be? 

The  most  renown'd  poems  would  be  ashes,  orations  and  plays 
would  be  vacuums. 

All  architecture  is  what  you  do  to  it  when  you  look  upon  it 
(Did  you  think  it  was  in  the  white  or  grey  stone?  or  the  lines 
of  the  arches  and  cornices?) 

All  music  is  what  awakes  from  you  when  you  are  reminded 

by  the  instruments, 
It  is  not  the  violins  and  the  cornets,  it  is  not  the  oboe  nor  the 

beating  drums,  nor  the  score  of  the  baritone  singer  singing 

his  sweet  romanza,  nor  that  of  the  men's  chorus,  nor  that 

of  the  women's  chorus, 
It  is  nearer  and  farther  than  they. 

5 

Will  the  whole  come  back  then? 

Can  each  see  signs  of  the  best  by  a  look  in  the  looking-glass? 

is  there  nothing  greater  or  more? 
Does  all  sit  there  with  you,  with  the  mystic  unseen  soul? 

Strange  and  hard  that  paradox  true  I  give, 
Objects  gross  and  the  unseen  soul  are  one. 

House-building,  measuring,  sawing  the  boards, 

Blacksmithing,  glass-blowing,  nail-making,  coopering,  tin-roof 
ing,  shingle-dressing, 

Ship-joining,  dock-building,  fish-curing,  flagging  of  sidewalks 
by  flaggers, 

The  pump,  the  pile-driver,  the  great  derrick,  the  coal-kiln  and 
brick-kiln — 

Coal-mines  and  all  that  is  down  there,  the  lamps  in  the  dark- 
•  ness,  echoes,  songs,  what  meditations,  what  vast  native 
thoughts  looking  through  smutch'd  faces, 

Iron-workers,  forge-fires  in  the  mountains  or  by  river-banks, 
men  around  feeling  the  melt  with  huge  crowbars,  lumps  of 
ore,  the  due  combining  of  ore,  limestone,  coal, 

The  blast-furnace  and  the  puddling-furnace,  the  loup-lump  at 
the  bottom  of  the  melt  at  last,  the  rolling-mill,  the  stumpy 
bars  of  pig-iron,  the  strong  clean-shaped  T-rail  for  railroads, 


A  Song  for  Occupations  187 

Oil-works,  silk-works,  white-lead-works,  the  sugar-house, 
steam-saws,  the  great  mills  and  factories, 

Stone-cutting,  shapely  trimmings  for  facades  or  window  or 
door-lintels,  the  mallet,  the  tooth-chisel,  the  jib  to  protect 
the  thumb, 

The  caking-ircn,  the  kettle  of  boiling  vault-cement,  and  the 
fire  under  the  kettle, 

The  cotton-bale,  the  stevedore's  hook,  the  saw  and  buck  of  the 
sawyer,  the  mould  of  the  moulder,  the  working-knife  of 
the  butcher,  the  ice-saw,  and  all  the  work  with  ice, 

The  work  and  tools  of  the  rigger,  grappler,  sail-maker,  block- 
maker, 

Goods  of  gutta-percha,  papier-mache,  colours,  brushes,  brush- 
making,  glazier's  implements, 

The  veneer  and  glue-pot,  the  confectioner's  ornaments,  the 
decanter  and  glasses,  the  shears  and  flat-iron, 

The  awl  and  knee-strap,  the  pint  measure  and  quart  measure, 
the  counter  and  stool,  the  writing-pen  of  quill  or  metal, 
the  making  of  all  sorts  of  edged  tools, 

The  brewery,  brewing,  the  malt,  the  vats,  everything  that  is 
done  by  brewers,  wine-makers,  vinegar-makers, 

Leather-dressing,  coach-making,  boiler-making,  rope-twisting, 
distilling,  sign-making,  lime-burning,  cotton-picking, 
electroplating,  electrotyping,  stereotyping, 

Stave-machines,  planing-machines,  reaping-machines,  plough- 
ing-machines,  thrashing-machines,  steam  wagons, 

The  cart  of  the  carman,  the  omnibus,  the  ponderous  dray, 

Pyrotechny,  letting  off  colour'd  fireworks  at  night,  fancy  fig 
ures  and  jets ; 

Beef  on  the  butcher's  stall,  the  slaughter-house  of  the  butcher, 
the  butcher  in  his  killing-clothes, 

The  pens  of  live  pork,  the  killing-hammer,  the  hog-hook,  the 
scalder's  tube,  gutting,  the  cutter's  cleaver,  the  packer's 
maul,  and  the  plenteous  winter-work  of  pork-packing, 

Flour-works,  grinding  of  wheat,  rye,  maize,  rice,  the  barrels 
and  the  half  and  quarter  barrels,  the  loaded  barges,  the 
high  piles  on  wharves  and  levees, 

The  men  and  the  work  of  the  men  on  ferries,  railroads, 
coasters,  fish-boats,  canals ; 

The  hourly  routine  of  your  own  or  any  man's  life,  the  shop, 
yard,  store,  or  factory, 

These  shows  all  near  you  by  day  and  night — workman !  who 
ever  you  are,  your  daily  life  1 


1 88  Leaves  of  Grass 

In  that  and  them  the  heft  of  the  heaviest — in  that  and  them 

far  more  than  you  estimated  (and  far  less  also), 
In  them  realities  for  you  and  me,  in  them  poems  for  you  and 

me, 
In  them,  not  yourself — you  and  your  soul  enclose  all  things, 

regardless  of  estimation, 
In   them   the   development   good — in   them   all   themes,   hints, 

possibilities. 

I  do  not  affirm  that  what  you  see  beyond  is  futile,  I  do  not 

advise  you  to  stop, 

I  do  not  say  leadings  you  thought  great  are  not  great, 
But  I  say  that  none  lead  to  greater  than  these  lead  to. 


Will  you  seek  afar  off?  you  surely  come  back  at  last, 

In  things  best  known  to  you  finding  the  best,  or  as  good  as 

the  best, 

In  folks  nearest  to  you  finding  the  sweetest,  strongest,  lovingest, 
Happiness,  knowledge,  not  in  another  place  but  this  place,  not 

for  another  hour  but  this  hour, 
Man  in  the  first  you  see  or  touch,  always  in  friend,  brother, 

nighest  neighbour — woman  in  mother,  sister,  wife, 
The   popular   tastes    and   employments   taking   precedence    in 

poems  or  anywhere, 
You  workwomen  and  workmen  of  these  States  having  your 

own  divine  and  strong  life, 
And  all  else  giving  place  to  men  and  women  like  you. 

When  the  psalm  sings  instead  of  the  singer, 

When  the  script  preaches  instead  of  the  preacher, 

Wrhen  the  pulpit  descends  and  goes  instead  of  the  carver  that 
carved  the  supporting  desk, 

When  I  can  touch  the  body  of  books  by  night  or  by  day,  and 
when  they  touch  my  body  back  again, 

When  a  university  course  convinces  like  a  slumbering  woman 
and  child  convince, 

When  the  minted  gold  in  the  vault  smiles  like  the  night- 
watchman's  daughter, 

When  warrantee  deeds  loafe  in  chairs  opposite  and  are  my 
friendly  companions, 

I  intend  to  reach  them  my  hand,  and  make  as  much  of  them  as 
I  do  of  men  and  women  like  you. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ROLLING 
EARTH 


A  SONG  of  the  rolling  earth,  and  of  words  according, 

Were  you  thinking  that  those  were  the  words,  those  upright 

lines?  those  curves,  angles,  dots? 
No,  those  are  not  the  words,  the  substantial  words  are  in  the 

ground  and  sea, 
They  are  in  the  air,  they  are  in  you. 

Were  you  thinking  that  those  were  the  words,  those  delicious 

sounds  out  of  your  friends'  mouths? 
No,  the  real  words  are  more  delicious  than  they. 

Human  bodies  are  words,  myriads  of  words 

(In  the  best  poems  reappears  the  body,  man's  or  woman's, 

well-shaped,  natural,  gay, 
Every  part  able,  active,  receptive,  without  shame  or  the  need 

of  shame). 

Air,  soil,  water,  fire — those  are  words, 

I  myself  am  a  word  with  them — my  qualities  interpenetrate 

with  theirs — my  name  is  nothing  to  them, 
Though  it  were  told  in  the  three  thousand  languages,  what 

would  air,  soil,  water,  fire,  know  of  my  name? 

A  healthy  presence,  a   friendly  or  commanding  gesture,   are 

words,  sayings,  meanings, 
The  charms  that  go  with  the  mere  looks  of   some  men  and 

women,  are  sayings  and  meanings  also. 

The  workmanship  of  souls  is  by  those  inaudible  words  of  the 

earth, 
The  masters  know  the  earth's  words  and  use  them  more  than 

audible  words. 

Amelioration  is  one  of  the  earth's  words, 
The  earth  neither  lags  nor  hastens, 

189 


190  Leaves  of  Grass 

It  has  all  attributes,  growths,  effects,  latent  in  itself  from  the 

jump, 
It  is  not  half  beautiful  only,  defects  and  excrescences  show 

just  as  much  as  perfections  show. 

The  earth  does  not  withhold,  it  is  generous  enough, 

The  truths  of  the  earth  continually  wait,  they  are  not  so  con- 

ceal'd  either. 

They  are  calm,  subtle,  untransmissible  by  print, 
They   are   imbued   through    all    things    conveying   themselves 

willingly, 

Conveying  a  sentiment  and  invitation,  I  utter  and  utter, 
I  speak  not,  yet  if  you  hear  me  not  of  what  avail  am  I  to  you? 
To  bear,  to  better,  lacking  these  of  what  avail  am  I? 

(Accouche!   accouchez! 

Will  you  rot  your  own  fruit  in  yourself  there? 

Will  you  squat  and  stifle  there?) 

The  earth  does  not  argue, 

Is  not  pathetic,  has  no  arrangements, 

Does  not  scream,  haste,  persuade,  threaten,  promise, 

Makes  no  discriminations,  has  no  conceivable  failures, 

Closes  nothing,  refuses  nothing,  shuts  none  out, 

Of  all  the  powers,  objects,  states,  it  notifies,  shuts  none  out. 

The  earth  does  not  exhibit  itself  nor  refuse  to  exhibit  itself, 

possesses   still  underneath, 
Underneath  the  ostensible  sounds,  the  august  chorus  of  heroes, 

the  wail  of  slaves, 
Persuasions  of  lovers,  curses,  gasps  of  the  dying,  laughter  of 

young  people,  accents  of  bargainers, 
Underneath  these  possessing  words  that  never  fail. 

To  her  children  the  words  of  the  eloquent  dumb  great  mother 
never  fail, 

The  true  words  do  not  fail,  for  motion  does  not  fail  and  re 
flection  does  not  fail, 

Also  the  day  and  night  do  not  fail,  and  the  voyage  we  pursue 
does  not  fail. 

Of  the  interminable  sisters, 

Of  the  ceaseless  cotillons  of  sisters, 


A  Song  of  the  Rolling  Earth         191 

Of    the    centripetal    and    centrifugal    sisters,    the    elder    and 

younger  sisters, 
The  beautiful  sister  we  know  dances  on  with  the  rest. 

With  her  ample  back  towards  every  beholder, 

With  the  fascinations  of  youth  and  the  equal  fascinations  of 

age, 

Sits  she  whom  I  too  love  like  the  rest,  sits  undisturb'd, 
Holding  up  in  her  hand  what  has  the  character  of  a  mirror, 

while  her  eyes  glance  back  from  it, 
Glance  as  she  sits,  inviting  none,  denying  none, 
Holding  a  mirror  day  and  night  tirelessly  before  her  own  face. 

Seen  at  hand  or  seen  at  a  distance, 

Duly  the  twenty-four  appear  in  public  every  day, 

Duly  approach  and  pass  with  their  companions  or  a  companion, 

Looking  from  no  countenances   of  their  own,  but   from  the 

countenances  of  those  who  are  with  them, 
From  the  countenances  of  children  or  women  or  the  manly 

countenance, 
From  the  open  countenances  of  animals  or  from   inanimate 

things, 
From  the  landscape  or  waters  or  from  the  exquisite  apparition 

of  the  sky, 
From  our  countenances,  mine  and  yours,  faithfully  returning 

them, 
Every  day  in  public  appearing  without  fail,  but  never  twice 

with  the  same  companions. 

Embracing  man,  embracing  all,  proceed  the  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  resistlessly  round  the  sun; 

Embracing  all,  soothing,  supporting,  follow  close  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five  offsets  of  the  first,  sure  and  necessary 
as  they. 

Tumbling    on    steadily,    nothing    dreading, 

Sunshine^  storm,  cold,  heat,   for  ever   withstanding,  passing, 

carrying, 

The   soul's   realisation  and   determination   still   inheriting, 
The  fluid  vacuum  around  and  ahead  still  entering  and  dividing, 
No  balk  retarding,  no  anchor  anchoring,  on  no  rock  striking, 
Swift,  glad,  content,  unbereav'd,  nothing  losing, 
Of  ali  able  and  ready  at  any  time  to  give  strict  account, 
The  divine  ship  sails  the  divine  sea. 


192  Leaves  of  Grass 

2 

Whoever  you  are !  motion  and  reflection  are  especially  for  you, 
The  divine  ship  sails  the  divine  sea  for  you. 

Whoever   you    are!    you    are  he   or    she   whom   the   earth   is 

solid  and  liquid, 

You  are  he  or  she  for  whom  the  sun  and  moon  hang  in  the  sky, 
For  none  more  than  you  are  the  present  and  the  past, 
For  none  more  than  you  is  immortality. 

Each  man  to  himself  and  each  woman  to  herself,  is  the  word 
of  the  past  and  present,  and  the  true  word  of  immortality; 
No  one  can  acquire   for  another — not  one, 
No  one  can  grow  for  another — not  one. 

The  song  is  to  the  singer,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 
The  teaching  is  to  the  teacher,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 
The  murder  is  to  the  murderer,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 
The  theft  is  to  the  thief,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 
The  love  is  to  the  lover,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 
The  gift  is  to  the  giver,  and  comes  back  most  to  him — it  can 
not  fail, 
The  oration  is  to  the  orator,  the  acting  is  to  the  actor  and 

actress  not  to  the  audience, 

And  no  man  understands  any  greatness  or  goodness  but  his 
own,  or  the  indication  of  his  own. 


I  swear  the  earth  shall  surely  be  complete  to  him  or  her  who 

shall  be  complete, 
The  earth  remains  jagged  and  broken  only  to  him  or  her  who 

remains  jagged  and  broken. 

I  swear  there  is  no  greatness  or  power  that  does  not  emulate 
those  of  the  earth, 

There  can  be  no  theory  of  any  account  unless  it  corroborate 
the  theory  of  the  earth, 

No  politics,  song,  religion,  behaviour,  or  what  not,  is  of  ac 
count,  unless  it  compare  with  the  amplitude  of  the  earth, 

Unless  it  face  the  exactness,  vitality,  impartiality,  rectitude  of 
the  earth. 

I  swear  I  begin  to  see  love  with  sweeter  spasms  than  that 
which  responds  love, 

It  is  that  which  contains  itself,  which  never  invites  and  never 
refuses. 


A  Song  of  the  Rolling  Earth         193 

I  swear  I  begin  to  see  little  or  nothing  in  audible  words, 

All  merges  toward  the  presentation  of  the  unspoken  meanings 

of  the  earth, 
Toward  him  who  sings  the  songs  of  the  body  and  of  the  truths 

of  the  earth, 
Toward  him  who  makes  the  dictionaries  of  words  that  print 

cannot  touch. 

I  swear  I  see  what  is  better  than  to  tell  the  best, 
It  is  always  to  leave  the  best  untold. 

When  I  undertake  to  tell  the  best  I  find  I  cannot, 
My  tongue  is  ineffectual  on  its  pivots, 
My  breath  will  not  be  obedient  to  its  organs, 
I  become  a  dumb  man. 

The  best  of  the  earth  cannot  be  told  anyhow,  all  or  any  is  best, 
It  is  not  what  you  anticipated,  it  is  cheaper,  easier,  nearer, 
Things  are  not  dismiss'd  from  the  places  they  held  before, 
The  earth  is  just  as  positive  and  direct  as  it  was  before, 
Facts,  religions,  improvements,  politics,  trades,  are  as  real  as 

before, 

But  the  soul  is  also  real,  it  too  is  positive  and  direct, 
No  reasoning,  no  proof  has  establish'd  it, 
Undeniable  growth  has  establish'd  it. 


These  to  echo  the  tones  of  souls  and  the  phrases  of  souls, 
(If  they  did  not  echo  the  phrases  of  souls  what  were  they  then? 
If  they  had  not  reference  to  you  in  especial  what  were  they 
then?) 

I  "swear  I  will  never  henceforth  have  to  do  with  the  faith  that 

tells  the  best, 
I  will  have  to  do  only  with  that  faith  that  leaves  the  best 

untold. 

Say  on,  sayers!  sing  on,  singers! 
Delve!  mould!  pile  the  words  of  the  earth! 
Work  on,  age  after  age,  nothing  is  to  be  lost, 
It  may  have  to  wait  long,  but  it  will  certainly  come  in  use, 
When  the  materials  are  all  prepared  and  ready,  the  architects 
shall  appear. 


194  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  swear  to  you  the  architects  shall  appear  without  fail, 
I  swear  to  you  they  will  understand  you  and  justify  you, 
The  greatest  among  them  shall  be  he  who  best  knows  you,  and 

encloses  all  and  is  faithful  to  all, 
He  and  the  rest  shall  not  forget  you,  they  shall  perceive  that 

you  are  not  an  iota  less  than  they. 
You  shall  be  fully  glorified  in  them. 


YOUTH,   DAY,   OLD   AGE,   AND    NIGHT 

YOUTH,  large,  lusty,  loving — youth  full  of  grace,  force,  fascina 
tion, 

Do  you  know  that  Old  Age  may  come  after  you  with  equal 
grace,  force,  fascination? 

Day  full-blown  and  splendid — day  of  the  immense  sun,  action, 

ambition,  laughter, 
The  Night  follows  close  with  millions  of  suns,  and  sleep  and 

restoring  darkness. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE 

SONG  OF  THE  UNIVERSAL 


COME,  said  the  Muse, 

Sing  me  a  song  no  poet  yet  has  chanted, 

Sing  me  the  universal. 

In  this  broad  earth  of  ours, 
Amid  the  measureless  grossness  and  the  slag, 
Enclosed  and  safe  wtihin  its  central  heart, 
Nestles  the  seed  perfection. 

By  every  life  a  share  or  more  or  less, 

None  born  but  it  is  born,  conceal'd  or  unconceaTd  the  seed  is 
waiting. 

2 

Lo!  keen-eyed  towering  science, 

As  from  tall  peaks  the  modern  overlooking, 

Successive   absolute   fiats   issuing. 

Yet  again,  lo !  the  soul,  above  all  science, 

For  it  has  history  gather'd  like  husks  around  the  globe, 

For  it  the  entire  star-myriads  roll  through  the  sky. 

In  spiral   routes  by  long  detours, 
(As  a  much-tacking  ship  upon  the  sea), 
For  it  the  partial  to  the  permanent  flowing, 
For  it  the  real  to  the  ideal  tends. 

For  it  the  mystic  evolution, 

Not  the  right  only  justified,  what  we  call  evil  also  justified. 

Forth  from  their  masks,  no  matter  what, 
From  the  huge  festering  trunk,  from  craft  and  guile  and  tears, 
Health  to  emerge  and  joy,  joy  universal. 
Out  of  the  bulk,  the  morbid  and  the  shallow, 
Out  of  the  bad  majority,  the  varied  countless  frauds  of  men 
and  states, 

195 


196 


Leaves  of  Grass 


Electric,  antiseptic  yet,  cleaving,  suffusing  all, 
Only  the  good  is  universal. 


Over  the  mountain-growths  disease  and  sorrow, 
An  uncaught  bird  is  ever  hovering,  hovering, 
High  in  the  purer,  happier  air. 

From  imperfection's  murkiest  cloud, 

Darts  always  forth  one  ray  of  perfect  light, 

One  flash  of  heaven's  glory. 

To  fashion's,  custom's  discord, 
To  the  mad  Babel-din,  the  deafening  orgies, 
Soothing  each  lull  a  strain  is  heard,  just  heard, 
From  some  far  shore  the  final  chorus  sounding. 

O  the  blest  eyes,  the  happy  hearts, 

That  see,  that  know  the  guiding  thread  so  fine, 

Along  the  mighty  labyrinth. 


And  thou,  America, 

For  the  scheme's  culmination,  its  thought  and  its  reality, 

For  these  (not  for  thyself)  thou  hast  arrived. 

Thou  too  surroundest  all, 

Embracing,   carrying,   welcoming   all,   thou   too   by  patkways 

broad  and  new, 
To  the  ideal  tendest. 

The  measur'd  faiths  of  other  lands,  the  grandeurs  of  the  past, 
Are  not  for  thee,  but  grandeurs  of  thine  own, 
Deific  faiths  and  amplitudes,  absorbing,  comprehending  all, 
All  eligible  to  all. 

All,  all   for  immortality, 

Love  like  the  light  silently  wrapping  all, 

Nature's  amelioration  blessing  all, 

The  blossoms,  fruits  of  ages,  orchards  divine  and  certain, 

Forms,  objects,  growths,  humanities,  to  spiritual  images  ripening. 


Birds  of  Passage  197 

Give  me,  O  God,  to  sing  that  thought, 

Give  me,  give  him  or  her  I  love  this  quenchless  faith, 

In  Thy  ensemble,  whatever  else  withheld  withhold  not  from  us, 

Belief  in  plan  of  Thee  enclosed  in  Time  and  Space, 

Health,  peace,  salvation  universal. 

Is  it  a  dream? 

Nay  but  the  lack  of  it  the  dream, 

And  failing  it  life's  lore  and  wealth  a  dream, 

And  all  the  world  a  dream. 


PIONEERS  1  O  PIONEERS! 

COME  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready, 
Have  you  your  pistols?  have  you  your  sharp-edged  axes? 

Pioneers  1  O  pioneers! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 

We  must  march,  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of  danger, 
We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

O  you  youths,  Western  youths, 

So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and  friendship, 
Plain  I  see  you  Western  youths,  see  you  tramping  with  the 
foremost, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  1 

Have  the  elder  races  halted? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied  over  there  beyond 

the  seas? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 

We  debouch  upon  a  newer,  mightier  world,  varied  world, 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor  and  the 
march, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 
Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains  steep, 


198  Leaves  of  Grass 

Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as  we  go  the  unknown 

ways, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers  I 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 
We   the  rivers   stemming,  vexing  we  and  piercing  deep  the 

mines  within, 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the  virgin  soil  upheaving, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  1 

Colorado  men  are  we, 
From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the  high 

plateaus, 
From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting  trail  we 

come, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

From    Nebraska,    from   Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the  continental 

blood  intervein'd, 
All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all  the 

Northern, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

O  resistless,  restless  race! 
O  beloved  race  in  all !  O  my  breast  aches  with  tender  love 

for  all ! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry  mistress, 

(bend  your  heads  all), 
Raise    the    fang'd    and    warlike    mistress,    stern,    impassive, 

weapon'd  mistress, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

See  my  children,  resolute  children, 

By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must  never  yield  or  falter, 
Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind  us  urging, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 

With  accessions  ever   waiting,  with   the  places   of   the   dead 
quickly  fill'd, 


Birds  of  Passage  199 

Through  the  battle,   through   defeat,   moving  yet   and   never 

stopping, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

0  to  die  advancing  on ! 

Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die?  has  the  hour  come? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure  the  gap  is 

fill'd, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 

Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  movement  beat, 
Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving  to  the  front,  all  for  us, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 

All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their  work, 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with  their  slaves. 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 

All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and  the  wicked, 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the  living,  all  the  dying,  «- 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

1  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 

We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way, 

Through  these  shores  amid  the  shadows,  with  the  apparitions 

pressing, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Lo,  the  darting,  bowling  orb! 

Lo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all  the  clustering  suns  and  planets, 
All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights  with  dreams, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
All   for   primal   needed   work,   while   the    followers   there   in 

embryo  wait  behind, 
We  to-day's  procession  heading  as  we  the  route   for  travel 

clearing, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

O  you  daughters  of  the  West! 

O  you  young  and  elder  daughters !  O  you  mothers  and  you  wives  1 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 


2OO  Leaves  of  Grass 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies! 
(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,  you  may  rest,  you  have  done 

your  work), 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and  tramp 

amid  us, 
Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Not    for    delectations   sweet, 

Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and  the  studious, 
Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame  enjoyment, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Do  the  f casters  gluttonous  feast? 
Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep?  have  they  lock'd  and  bolted 

doors  ? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the  ground, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Has    the    night    descended? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome?  did  we  stop  discouraged 

nodding  on  our  way? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you  in  your  tracks  to  pause  oblivious, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers! 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,  far  off  the  daybreak  call — hark!  how  loud  and  clear  I 

hear  it  wind, 
Swift!  to  the  head  of  the  army! — swift!  spring  to  your  places, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 


TO  YOU 

WHOEVER  you  are,  I  fear  you  are  walking  the  walks  of  dreams, 
I  fear  these  supposed  realities  are  to  melt  from  under  your 

feet  and  hands, 
Even  now  your  features,  joys,  speech,  house,  trade,  manners, 

troubles,  follies,  costume,  crimes,  dissipate  away  from  y^u, 
Your  true  soul  and  body  appear  before  me, 
They  stand  forth  out  of  affairs,  out  of  commerce,  shops,  work, 

farms,  clothes,  the  house,  buying,  selling,  eating,  drinking, 

suffering,  dying. 

Whoever  you  are,  now  I  place  my  hand  upon  you,  that  you  be 
my  poem, 


Birds  of  Passage  201 

I  whisper  with  my  lips  close  to  your  ear, 
I  have  loved  many  women  and  men,  but  I  love  none  better 
than  you. 

0  I  have  been  dilatory  and  dumb, 

1  should  have  made  my  way  straight  to  you  long  ago, 

I  should  have  blabb'd  nothing  but  you,  I  should  have  chanted 
nothing  but  you. 

I  will  leave  all  and  come  and  make  hymns  of  you, 

None  has  understood  you,  but  I  understand  you, 

None  has  done  justice  to  you,  you  have  not  done  justice  to 

yourself, 
None  but  has  found  you  imperfect,  I  only  find  no  imperfection 

in  you, 
None  but  would  subordinate  you,  I  only  am  he  who  will  never 

consent  to  subordinate  you, 
J  only  am  he  who  places  over  you  no  master,  owner,  better,  God, 

beyond  what  waits  intrinsically  in  yourself. 

Painters  have  painted  their  swarming  groups  and  the  centre 

figure  of  all, 
From  the  head  of  the  centre-figure  spreading  a  nimbus  of  gold- 

colour'd    light, 
But  I  paint  myriads  of  heads,  but  paint  no  head  without  its 

nimbus  of  gold-colour'd  light, 
From  my  hand  from  the  brain  of  every  man  and  woman  it 

streams,  effulgently  flowing  for  ever. 

0  I  could  sing  such  grandeurs  and  glories  about  you! 

You  have  not  known  what  you  are,  you  have  slumber'd  upon 

yourself  all  your  life, 

Your  eyelids  have  been  the  same  as  closed  most  of  the  time, 
What  you  have  done  returns  already  in  mockeries, 
(Your  thrift,  knowledge,  prayers,   if  they  do  not  return   in 

mockeries,  what  is  their  return?) 
The  mockeries  are  not  you, 
Underneath  them  and  within  them  I  see  you  lurk, 

1  pursue  you  where  none  else  has  pursued  you, 

Silence,  the  desk,  the  flippant  expression,  the  night,  the  accus- 
tom'd  routine,  if  these  conceal  you  from  others  or  from 
yourself,  they  do  not  conceal  you  from  me, 

The  shaved  face,  the  unsteady  eye,  the  impure  complexion,  if 
these  balk  others  they  do  not  balk  me, 


2O2  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  pert  apparel,  the  deform'd  attitude,  drunkenness,  greed, 
premature  death,  all  these  I  part  aside. 

There  is  no  endowment  in  man  or  woman  that  is  not  tallied 

in  you, 
There  is  no  virtue,  no  beauty  in  man  or  woman,  but  as  good 

is  in  you, 

No  pluck,  no  endurance  in  others,  but  as  good  is  in  you, 
No  pleasure  waiting  for  others,  but  an  equal  pleasure  waits 

for  you. 
As  for  me,  I  give  nothing  to  any  one  except  I  give  the  like 

carefully  to  you, 
I  sing  the  songs  of  the  glory  of  none,  not  God,  sooner  than  I 

sing  the  songs  of  glory  of  you, 

Whoever  you  are !  claim  your  own  at  any  hazard ! 

These  shows  of  the  East  and  West  are  tame  compared  to 

you, 
These  immense  meadows,  these  interminable  rivers,  you  are 

immense  and  interminable  as  they, 
These  furies,  elements,  storms,  motions  of  Nature,  throes  of 

apparent  dissolution,  you  are  he  or  she  who  is  master  or 

mistress  over  them, 
Master  or  mistress  in  your  own  right  over  Nature,  elements, 

pain,  passion,  dissolution. 

The  hopples  fall  from  your  ankles,  you  find  an  unfailing  suffi 
ciency, 

Old  or  young,  male  or  female,  rude,  low,  rejected  by  the  rest, 
whatever  you  are  promulges  itself, 

Through  birth,  life,  death,  burial,  the  means  are  provided, 
nothing  is  scanted, 

Through  angers,  losses,  ambition,  ignorance,  ennui,  what  you 
are  picks  its  way. 


FRANCE 

The  IS/7*  Year  of  these  States 

A  GREAT  year  and  place, 

A  harsh  discordant  natal  scream  out-sounding,  to  touch  the 
mother's  heart  closer  than  any  yet. 


Birds  of  Passage  203 

I  walk'd  the  shores  of  my  Eastern  sea, 

Heard  over  the  waves  the  little  voice, 

Saw  the  divine  infant  where  she  woke  mournfully  wailing, 

amid  the  roar  of  cannon,  curses,  shouts,  crash  of  falling 

buildings, 
Was  not  so  sick  from  the  blood  in  the  gutters  running,  nor 

from  the  single  corpses,   nor   those   in   heaps,  nor  those 

borne  away  in  the  tumbrils, 
Was  not  so  desperate  at  the  battues  of   death — was  not   so 

shock'd  at  the  repeated  fusillades  of  the  guns. 

Pale,   silent,   stern,   what   could    I    say   to   that   long-accrued 

retribution  ? 

Could  I  wish  humanity  different? 
Could  I  wish  the  people  made  of  wood  and  stone? 
Or  that  there  be  no  justice  in  destiny  or  time? 

O  Liberty !  O  mate  for  me  ! 

Here  too  the  blaze,  the  grape-shot  and  the  axe,  in  reserve,  to 

fetch  them  out  in  case  of  need, 

Here  too,  though  long  represt,  can  never  be  destroy'd, 
Here  too  could  rise  at  last  murdering  and  ecstatic, 
Here  too  demanding  full  arrears  of  vengeance. 

Hence  I  sign  this  salute  over  the  sea, 

And  I  do  not  deny  that  terrible  red  birth  and  baptism, 

But  remember  the  little  voice  that  I  heard  wailing,  and  wait 

with  perfect  trust,  no  matter  how  long, 
And  from  to-day,  sad  and  cogent  I  maintain  the  bequeath'd 

cause,  as  for  all  lands, 

And  I  send  these  words  to  Paris  with  my  love, 
And  I  guess  some  chansonniers  there  will  understand  them, 
For  I  guess  there  is  latent  music  yet  in  France,  floods  of  it, 
O  I  hear  already  the  bustle  of  instruments,  they  will  soon  be 

drowning  all  that  would  interrupt  them, 

0  I  think  the  east  wind  brings  a  triumphal  and  free  march, 
It  reaches  hither,  it  swells  me  to  joyful  madness, 

1  will  run  transpose  it  in  words,  to  justify  it, 
I  will  yet  sing  a  song  for  you  ma  femme. 

MYSELF  AND  MINE 

MYSELF  and  mine  gymnastic  ever, 

To  stand  the  cold  or  heat,  to  take  good  aim  with  a  gun,  to  sail 
a  boat,  to  manage  horses,  to  beget   superb  children, 


204  Leaves  of  Grass 

To  speak  readily  and  clearly,  to  feel  at  home  among  common 

people, 
And  to  hold  our  own  in  terrible  positions  on  land  and  sea. 

Not  for  an  embroiderer, 

(There  will  always  be  plenty  of  embroiderers,  I  welcome  them 

also), 
But  for  the  fibre  of  things  and  for  inherent  men  and  women. 

Not  to  chisel  ornaments, 

But  to  chisel  with  free  stroke  the  heads  and  limbs  of  plenteous 

supreme  Gods,  that  the  States  may  realise  them  walking 

and  talking. 

Le  me  have  my  own  way, 

Let  others  promulge  the  laws,  I  will  make  no  account  of  the  laws, 

Let  others  praise  eminent  men  and  hold  up1  peace,  I  hold  up 

agitation  and  conflict, 
I  praise  no  eminent  man,  I  rebuke  to  his  face  the  one  that  was 

thought  most  worthy. 

(Who  are  you?  and  what  are  you  secretly  guilty  of  all  your 

life? 
Will  you  turn  aside  all  your  life?  will  you  grub  and  chatter  all 

your  life? 
And  who  are  you,  blabbing  by  rote,  years,  pages,  languages, 

reminiscences, 
Unwitting  to-day  that  you  do  not  know  how  to  speak  properly 

a  single  word?) 

Let  others  finish  specimens,  I  never  finish  specimens, 

I  start  them  by  exhaustless  laws  as  Nature  does,  fresh  and 

modern  continually. 
I  give  nothing  as  duties, 

What  others  give  as  duties  I  give  as  living  impulses, 
(Shall  I  give  the  heart's  action  as  a  duty?) 

Let  others  dispose  of  questions,  I  dispose  of  nothing,  I  arouse 

unanswerable  questions, 

Who  are  they  I  see  and  touch,  and  what  about  them? 
What  about  these  likes  of  myself  that  draw  me  so  close  by 

tender  directions  and  indirections? 

I  call  to  the  world  to  distrust  the  accounts  of  my  friends,  but 
listen  to  my  enemies,  as  I  myself  do, 


Birds  of  Passage  205 

I  charge  you  for  ever  reject  hose  who  would  expound  me,  for 

I  cannot  expound  myself, 

I  charge  that  there  be  no  theory  or  school  founded  out  of  me, 
I  charge  you  to  leave  all  free,  as  I  have  left  all  free. 

After  me,  vista! 

0  I  see  life  is  not  short,  but  immeasurably  long, 

1  henceforth  tread  the  world  chaste,  temperate,  an  early  riser, 

a  steady  grower, 
Every  hour  the  semen  of  centuries,  and  still  of  centuries. 

I  must  follow  up  these  continual  lessons  of  the  air,  water,  earth, 
I  perceive  I  have  no  time  to  lose. 

YEAR  OF  METEORS 
(1859-60) 

YEAR  of  meteors !  brooding  year  ! 

I  would  bind  in  words  retrospective  some  of  your  deeds  and  signs, 

I  would  sing  your  contest  for  the  19th  Presidentiad, 

I  would  sing  how  an  old  man,  tall,  with  white  hair,  mounted 

the  scaffold  in  Virginia, 

(I  was  at  hand,  silent  I  stood  with  teeth  shut  close,  I  watch'd, 
I  stood  very  near  you  old  man  when  cool  and  indifferent,  but 

trembling  with  age  and  your  unheal'd  wounds  you  mounted 

the  scaffold)  ; 
I  would  sing  in  my  copious  song  your  census  returns  of  the 

States, 
The  tables  of  poulation  and  products,  I  would  sing  of  your 

ships  and  their  cargoes, 
The   proud   black   ships   of    Manhattan    arriving,   some   fill'd 

with  immigrants,  some  from  the  isthmus  with  cargoes  of 

gold, 
Songs  thereof  would  I  sing,  to  all  that  hither  ward  comes  would 

I  welcome  give, 
And  you  would  I  sing,  fair  stripling !  welcome  to  you  from  me, 

young  prince  of  England ! 
(Remember  you  surging  Manhattan's  crowds   as  you  pass'd 

with  your  cortege  of  nobles? 

There  in  the  crowds  stood  I,  and  singled  you  out  with  attach 
ment)  ; 
Nor  forget  I  to  sing  of  the  wonder,  the  ship  as  she  swam  up 

my  bay, 


206  Leaves  of  Grass 

Well-shaped  and  stately  the  Great  Eastern  swam  up  my  bay, 

she  was  six  hundred  feet  long, 
Her  moving  swiftly  surrounded  by  myriads  of  small  craft  I 

forget  not  to  sing; 
Nor  the  comet  that  came  unannounced  out  of  the  north  flaring 

in  heaven, 
Nor  the  strange  huge   meteor-procession   dazzling  and  clear 

shooting  over  our  heads, 
(A  moment,  a  moment  long  it  sail'd  its  balls  of  unearthly  light 

over  our  heads, 

Then  departed,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone)  ; 
Of  such,  and  fitful  as  they,  I  sing — with  gleams  from  them 

would  I  gleam  and  patch  these  chants, 
Your  chants,  O  year  all  mottled  with  evil  and  good — year  of 

forebodings ! 
Year  of  comets  and  meteors  transient  and  strange — lo!  even 

here  one  equally  transient  and  strange  1 
As  I  flit  through  you  hastily,  soon  to  fall  and  be  gone,  what  is 

this  chant, 
What  am  I  myself  but  one  of  your  meteors? 

WITH  ANTECEDENTS 
1 

WITH  antecedents, 

With  my  fathers  and  mothers  and  the  accumulations  of  past 

ages, 
With  all  which,  had  it  not  been,  I  would  not  now  be  here,  as  I 

am, 

With  Egypt,  India,  Phenicia,  Greece,  and  Rome, 
With  the  Kelt,  the  Scandinavian,  the  Alb,  and  the  Saxon, 
With  antique  maritime  ventures,  laws,  artisanship,  wars,  and 

journeys, 

With  the  poet,  the  skald,  the  saga,  the  myth,  and  the  oracle, 
With  the  sale  of  slaves,  with  enthusiasts,  with  the  troubadour, 

the  crusader,  and  the  monk, 
With  those  old  continents  whence  we  have  come  to  this  new 

continent, 

With  the  fading  kingdoms  and  kings  over  there, 
With  the  fading  religions  and  priests, 
With  the  small  shores  we  look  back  to  from  our  own  large 

and,  present  shores, 


Birds  of  Passage  207 

With  countless  years  drawing  themselves  onward  and  arrived 

at  these  years, 

You  and  me  arrived— America  arrived  and  making  this  year, 
This  year!  sending  itself  ahead  countless  years  to  come. 


0  but  it  is  not  the  years — it  is  I,  it  is  You, 
We  touch  all  laws  and  tally  all  antecedents, 

We  are  the  skald,  the  oracle,  the  monk  and  the  knight,  we 

easily  include  them  and  more, 
We  stand  amid  time  beginningless  and  endless,  we  stand  amid 

evil  and  good, 

All  swings  around  us,  there  is  as  much  darkness  as  light, 
The  very  sun  swings  itself  and  its  system  of  planets  around  us, 
Its  sun,  and  its  again,  all  swing  around  us. 

As  for  me  (torn,  stormy,  amid  these  vehement  days), 

1  have  the  idea  of  all,  and  am  all  and  believe  in  all, 

I  believe  materialism  is  true  and  spiritualism  is  true,  I  reject 
no  part. 

(Have  I  forgotten  any  part?  anything  in  the  past? 

Come  to  me  whoever  and  whatever,  till  I  give  you  recognition.) 

I  respect  Assyria,  China,  Teutonia,  and  the  Hebrews, 

I  adopt  each  theory,  myth,  god,  and  demi-god, 

I  see  that  the  old  accounts,  bibles,  genealogies,  are  true  with-* 

out  exception, 

I  assert  that  all  past  days  were  what  they  must  have  been, 
And  that  they  could  no-how  have  been  better  than  they  were, 
And  that  to-day  is  what  it  must  be,  and  that  America  is, 
And  that  to-day  and  America  could  no-how  be  better  than 

they  are. 


In  the  name  of  these  States  and  in  your  and  my  name,  the 

Past, 
And  in  the  name  of  these  States  and  in  your  and  my  name, 

the  Present  time, 

I  know  that  the  past  was  great  and  the  future  will  be  great, 
And  I  know  that  both  curiously  conjoint  in  the  present  time, 


ao8  Leaves  of  Grass 

(For  the  sake  of  him  I  typify,  for  the  common  average  man's 

sake,  your  sake  if  you  are  he), 
And  that  where  I  am  or  you  are  this  present  day,  there  is 

the  centre  of  all  days,  all  races, 
And  there  is  the  meaning  to  us  of  all  that  has  ever  come  of 

races  and  days,  or  ever  will  come. 


A  BROADWAY   PAGEANT 


OVER  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come,        k 
Courteous,  the  swart-cheek'd  two-sworded  envoys, 
Leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches,  bare-headed,  impassive, 
Ride  to-day  through  Manhattan. 

Libertad !  I  do  not  know  whether  others  behold  what  I  beholdr 

In  the  procession  along  with  the  nobles  of  Niphon,  the  errand- 
bearers, 

Bringing  up  the  rear,  hovering  above,  around,  or  in  the  ranks 
marching, 

But  I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  what  I  behold  Libertad. 

When  million-footed  Manhattan  unpent  descends  to  her  pave 
ments, 

When  the  thunder-cracking  guns  arouse  me  with  the  proud 
roar  I  love, 

When  the  round-mouth'd  guns  out  of  the  smoke  and  smell  I 
love  spit  their  salutes, 

When  the  fire-flashing  guns  have  fully  alerted  me,  and  heaven- 
clouds  canopy  my  city  with  a  delicate  thin  haze, 

When  gorgeous  the  countless  straight  stems,  the  forests  at 
the  wharves,  thicken  with  colours, 

When  every  ship  richly  drest  carries  her  flag  at  the  peak, 

When  pennants  trail  and  street-festoons  hang  from  the  win 
dows, 

When  Broadway  is  entirely  given  up  to  foot-passengers  and 
foot-standers,  when  the  mass  is  densest, 

When  the  fagades  of  the  houses  are  alive  with  people,  when 
eyes  gaze  riveted  tens  of  thousands  at  a  time, 

When  the  guests  from  the  islands  advance,  when  the  pageant 
moves  forward  visible, 

When  the  summons  is  made,  when  the  answer  that  waited 
thousands  of  years  answers, 

I  too  rising1,  answering,  descend  to  the  pavements,  merge  with 
the  crowd,  and  gaze  with  them. 

209 


210  Leaves  of  Grass 

2 

Superb-faced  Manhattan ! 

Comrade  Americanos!  to  us,  then  at  last  the  Orient  comes. 

To  us,  my  city, 

Where  our  tall-topt  marble  and  iron  beauties  range  on  oppo 
site  sides,  to  walk  in  the  space  between, 
To-day  our  Antipodes  comes. 

The   Originatress  comes, 

The  nest  of   languages,   the  bequeather  of  poems,   the  race 

of  eld,  1 

Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  musings,  hot  with  passion^ 
Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flowing  garments, 
With  sunburnt  visage,  with  intense  soul  and  glittering  eyes, 
The  race  of  Brahma  comes. 

See  my  cantabile !  these  and  more  are  flashing  to  us  from  the 

procession, 
As  it  moves  changing,  a  kaleidoscope  divine  it  moves  changing 

before  us. 

For  not  the  envoys  nor  the  tann'd  Japanee  from  his  island 

only, 
Lithe  and   silent   the  Hindoo   appears,   the   Asiatic  continent 

itself  appears,  the  past,  the  dead, 

The  murky  night-morning,  of  wonder  and  fable  inscrutable, 
The  envelop'd  mysteries,  the  old  and  unknown  hive-bees, 
The  north,  the  sweltering  south,  eastern  Assyria,  the  Hebrews, 

the  ancient  of  ancients, 
Vast   desolated   cities,  the   gliding  present,   all   of   these  and 

more  are  in  the  pageant-procession. 

Geography,  the  world,  is  in  it, 

The   Great   Sea,   the  brood   of   islands,   Polynesia,   the   coast 

beyond, 
The   coast  you   henceforth   are   facing — you   Libertad!    from 

your  Western  golden  shores, 
The  countries  there  with  their  populations,  the  millions  en- 

masse  are   curiously  here, 
The  swarming  market-places,  the  temples  with   idols   ranged 

along  the  sides  or  at  the  end,  bonze,  brahmin,  and  llama, 
Mandarin,   farmer,  merchant,   mechanic,  and  fisherman, 


A  Broadway  Pageant  211 

The  singing-girl  and  the  dancing-girl,  the  ecstatic  person,  the 

secluded    emperors, 
Confucius  himself,  the  great  poets  and  heroes,  the  warriors, 

the  castes,  all, 
Trooping  up,  crowding  from  all  directions,  from  the  Altay 

mountains, 
From  Thibet,  from  the  four  winding  and  far-flowing  rivers  of 

China, 
From  the  southern  peninsulas  and  the  demi-continental  islands, 

from  Malaysia, 
These  and  whatever  belongs  to  them  palpable  show  forth  to 

me,  and  are  seiz'd  by  me, 

And  I  am  seiz'd  by  them,  and   friendlily  held  by  them, 
Till  as  here  them  all  I  chant,  Libertadl  for  themselves  and 

for  you. 

For  I  too  raising  my  voice  join  the  ranks  of  this  pageant, 

I  am  the  chanter,  I  chant  aloud  over  the  pageant, 

I  chant  the  world  on  my  Western  sea, 

I  chant,  copious  the  islands  beyond,  thick  as  stars  in  the  sky, 

I  chant  the  new   empire  grander  than   any  before,  as   in   a 

vision  it  comes  to  me, 

I  chant  America  the  mistress,  I  chant  a  greater  supremacy, 
I  chant  projected  a  thousand  blooming  cities  yet  in  time  on 

those   groups   of    sea-islands, 

My  sail-ships  and  steam-ships  threading  the  archipelagoes, 
My  stars  and  stripes  fluttering  in  the  wind, 
Commerce  opening,  the  sleep  of  ages  having  done  its  work, 

races  reborn,  refresh'd, 
Lives,  works  resumed — the  object  I  know  not — but  the  old, 

the  Asiatic  renew'd  as  it  must  be, 
Commencing  from  this  day  surrounded  by  the  world. 


And  you  Libertad  of  the  world ! 

You  shall  sit  in  the  middle  well-pois'd  thousands  and  thou 
sand  of  years, 

As  to-day  from  one  side  the  noble  of  Asia  come  to  y°u, 

As  to-morrow  from  the  other  side  the  queen  of  England  sends 
her  eldest  son  to  you, 

The  sign  is  reversing,  the  orb  is  enclosed, 

The  ring  is  circled,  the  journey  is  done, 


212  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  box-lid  is  but  perceptibly  open'd,  nevertheless  the  per 
fume  pours  copiously  out  of  the  whole  box. 

Young  Libertad !  with  the  venerable  Asia,  the  all-mother, 

Be  considerate  with  her  now  and  ever  hot  Libertad,  for  you 
are  all, 

Bend  your  proud  neck  to  the  long-off  mother  now  sending 
messages  over  the  archipelagoes  to  you, 

Bend  your  proud  neck  low  for  once,  young  Libertad. 

Were  the  children  straying  westward  so  long?  so  wide  the 

tramping? 
Were    the   precedent    dim    ages    debouching    westward    from 

Paradise  so  long? 

Were  the  centuries  steadily  footing  it  that  way,  all  the  while 
unknown,  for  you,  for  reasons? 

They  are  justified,  they  are  accomplish'd,  they  shall  now  be 
turn'd  the  other  way  also,  to  travel  toward  you  thence, 

They  shall  now  also  march  obediently  eastward  for  your  sake, 
Libertad. 


SEA-DRIFT 

OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY  ROCKING 

OUT  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mock-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands,  and  the  fields  beyond,  where  the  child 

leaving  his  bed  wander'd  alone,  bareheaded,  barefoot, 
Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 
Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twining  and  twisting  as 

if  they  were  alive, 

Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 
From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 
From  your  memories,  sad  brother,  from  the  fitful  risings  and 

fallings  I  heard, 
From  under  that  yellow  half-moon  late-risen  and  swollen  as 

if  with  tears, 
From  those  beginning  notes  of  yearning  and  love  there  in  the 

mist, 

From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart  never  to  cease, 
From  the  myriad   thence-arous'd    words, 
From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any, 
From  such  as  now  they  start  the  scene  revisiting, 
As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing, 
Borne  hither,  ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 
A  man,  yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 
Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  waves, 
I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and  hereafter, 
Taking  all  hints  to  use  them,  but  swiftly  leaping  beyond  them, 
A  reminiscence  sing. 

Once  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth-month  grass 

was  growing, 

Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers, 
Two  feather'd  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 
And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs  spotted  with  brown, 

213 


214  Leaves  of  Grass 

And  every  day  the  he-hird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 

And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouch'd  on  her  nest,  silent,  with 
bright  eyes, 

And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never  dis 
turbing  them, 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine!  shine!  shine! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun! 

While  we  bask,  ive  two  together. 

Two  together! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north. 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no   time, 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 

Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 

Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 

And  thenceforward  all  summer  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 

And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon  in  calmer  weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 

Or  fitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 

I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining  one,  the  he-bird, 

The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

Blow!  blow!  blow! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of   a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat   the   lone    singer   wonderful   causing    ..ears. 

He  call'd  on  his  mate, 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men  know. 


Sea-Drift  215 

Yes,  my  brother,  I  know, 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasur'd  every  note, 
For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding, 
Silent,   avoiding   the   moonbeams,    blending    myself    with   the 

shadows, 
Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the  sounds  and 

sights  after  their  sorts, 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long. 

Listen'd  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you,  my  brother. 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 

Close  on  its  waves  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lapping,  every  one 

close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  rose  late, 

It  is  lagging — O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

0   night!   do  I  not  see  my   love  fluttering    out  among    the 

breakers f 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white  ? 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves, 

Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 

You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 

Low-hanging  moon! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow? 

0  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate! 

0  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land!  land!  O  land! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  O  I  think  you  could  give  me  my  mate 

back  again  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I  look. 


2i6  Leaves  of  Grass 

O  rising  stars! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with  some 
of  you. 


O  throat!  0  trembling  throat! 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love!  death's  carols! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon! 

O  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into  the  sea! 

0  reckless  despairing   carols. 

But  soft!  sink  low! 
Soft!  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment  you  husky-nois'd  sea, 
For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding  to  me, 
So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 
But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come  imme 
diately  to  me. 

Hither  my  love! 

Here  I  am!  here! 

With  this  just-sustain' 'd  note  I  announce  myself  to  you, 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy' d  elsewhere, 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  it  is  not  my  voice, 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  sprayf 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

O  darkness!  O  in  vain! 

O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

O  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon  the  seaf 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea! 

O  throat!  O   throbbing  heart! 

And  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 


Sea-Drift  217 

0  past!  O  happy  life;  O  songs  of  joy! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved!  loved!  loved!  loved!  loved! 
But  -my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me! 
We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking, 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous  echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly  moaning,. 

On  the  sand  of  Paumanok's  shore  grey  and  rustling, 

The  yellow  half -moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  drooping,  the 

face  of  the  sea  almost  touching, 
The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with  his  hair 

the  atmosphere  dallying, 
The   love   in    the   heart   long   pent,   now   loose,   now    at    last 

tumultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  soul,  swiftly  depositing, 
The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 
The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering, 

The  undertone,  the  savage  old  mother  incessantly  crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some  drown'd 

secret  hissing, 
To  the  outsetting  bard. 

Demon  or  bird!  (said  the  boy's  soul), 

Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing?  or  is  it  really  to  me? 

For  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping,  now  I  have 

heard  you, 

Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for,  I  awake, 
And  already  a  thousand  singers,  a  thousand  songs,  clearer, 

louder,  and  more  sorrowful  than  yours, 
A  thousand  warbling  echoes  have  started  to  life  within  me, 

never  to  die. 

O   you    singer   solitary,    singing  by  yourself,   projecting  me, 
O  solitary  me  listening,  never  more  shall  I  cease  perpetuating 

you, 

Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverberations, 
Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be  absent  from  me, 


218  Leaves  of  Grass 

Never  again  leave  me  to  the  peaceful  child  I  was  before  what 

there  in  the  night, 

By  the  sea  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon, 
The  messenger  there  arous'd,  the  fire,  the  sweet  hell  within, 
The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the  clew!  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  somewhere), 
O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more! 

A  word  then   (for  I  will  conquer  it) 
The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 
Subtle,  sent  up — what  is  it? — I  listen; 

Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been  all  the  time,  you  sea- 
waves  ? 
Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands? 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 

Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 

Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  and  very  plainly  before  day 
break, 

Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  death, 

And  again  death,  death,  death,  death, 

Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird  not  like  my  arous'd 
child's  heart, 

But  edging  near  as  privately  for  me  rustling  at  my  feet, 

Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears  and  laving  me  softly 
all  over, 

Death,  death,  death,  death,  death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother, 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on  Paumanok's  grey  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs  at  random, 

My  own  songs  awaked  from  that  hour, 

And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 

The  word  of  the  sweetest  song  and  all  songs, 

That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,  creeping  to  my  feet, 

(Or  like  some  old  crone  rocking  the  cradle,  swathed  in  sweet 

garments,  bending  aside), 
The  sea  whisper'd  me. 


Sea-Drift  219 

AS  I  EBB'D  WITH  THE  OCEAN  OF  LIFE 


A.S  I  ebb'd  with  the  ocean  of  life, 

As  I  wended  the  shores   I  know, 

As  I  walk'd  where  the  ripples  continually  wash  you  Paumanok, 

Where  they  rustle  up  hoarse  and  sibilant, 

Where  the  fierce  old  mother  endlessly  cries  for  her  castaways, 

I  musing  late  in  the  autumn  day,  gazing  0-ff  southward, 

Held  by  this*  electric  self  out  of  the  pride  of  which  I  utter 

poems, 

Was  seiz'd  by  the  spirit  that  trails  in  the  lines  underfoot, 
The  rim,  the  sediment  that  stands  for  all  the  water  and  all 

the  land  of  the  globe. 

Fascinated,  my  eyes  reverting  from  the  south,  dropt,  to  follow 

those  slender  windrows, 

Chaff,  straw,  splinters  of  wood,  weeds,  and  the  sea-gluten, 
Scum,  scales  from  shining  rocks,  leaves  of  salt-lettuce,  left  by 

the  tide, 

Miles  walking,  the  sound  of  breaking  waves  the  other  side  of  me, 
Paumanok  there  and  then  as  I  thought  the  old  thought  of 

likenesses, 

These  you  presented  to  me  you  fish-shaped  island, 
As  I  wended  the  shores  I  know, 
As  I  walk'd  with  that  electric  self  seeking  types. 


As  I  wend  to  the  shores  I  know  not, 

As  I  list  to  the  dirge,  the  voices  of  men  and  women  wreckva, 

As  I  inhale  the  impalpable  breezes  that  set  in  upon  me, 

As  the  ocean  so  mysterious  rolls  toward  me  closer  and  closer, 

I  too  but  signify  at  the  utmost  a  little  wash'd-up  drift, 

A  few  sands  and  dead  leaves  to  gather, 

Gather,  and  merge  myself  as  part  of  the  sands  and  drift. 

O  baffled,  balk'd,  bent  to  the  very  earth, 

Oppress'd  with  myself  that  I  have  dared  to  open  my  mouth, 

Aware  now  that  amid  all  that  blab  whose  echoes  recoil  upon 

me  I  have  not  once  had  the  least  idea  who  or  what  I  am, 
But  that  before  all  my  arrogant  poems  the  real  Me  stands  yet 

untouch'd,  untold,  altogether  unreach'd, 


Leaves  of  Grass 

Withdrawn  far,  mocking  me  with  mock-congratulatory  signs 

and  bows, 
With  peals  of  distant  ironical  laughter  at  every  word  I  have 

written, 
Pointing  in  silence  to  these  songs,  and  then  to  the  sand  beneath. 

I  perceive  I  have  not  really  understood  anything,  not  a  single 

object,  and  that  no  man  ever  can, 
Nature  here  in  sight  of  the  sea  taking  advantage  of  me  to 

dart  upon  me  and  sting  me, 
Because  I  have  dared  to  open  my  mouth  to  sing  at  all. 


You  oceans  both,  I  close  with  you, 

We    murmur    alike    reproachfully    rolling    sands    and    drift, 

knowing  not  why, 
These  little  shreds  indeed  standing  for  you  and  me  and  all. 

You  friable  shore  with  trails  of  debris, 

You  fish-shaped  island,  I  take  what  is  underfoot, 

What  is  yoursis  mine,  my  father. 

I    too  Paumanok, 

I  too  have  bubbled  up,  floated  the  measureless  float,  and  been 

wash'd  on  your  shores, 
I  too  am  but  a  trail  of  drift  and  debris, 
I  too  leave  little  wrecks  upon  you,  you  fish-shaped  island. 

I  throw  myself  upon  your  breast,  my  father, 
I  cling  to  you  so  that  you  cannot  unloose  me, 
I  hold  you  so  firm  till  you  answer  me  something. 

Kiss  me,  my  father, 

Touch  me  with  your  lips  as  I  touch  those  I  love, 
Breathe  to  me  while  I  hold  you  close  the  secret  of  the  mur 
muring  I  envy. 


Ebb,  ocean  of  life  (the  flow  will  return), 
Cease  not  your  moaning  you  fierce  old  mother, 
Endlessly  cry  for  your  castaways,  but  fear  not,  deny  not  me, 
Rustle  not  up  so  hoarse  and  angry  against  my  feet  as  I  touch 
you  or  gather  from  you. 


Sea-Drift  221 

I  mean  tenderly  by  you  and  all, 

I  gather  for  myself  and  for  this  phantom  looking  down  where 
we  lead,  and  following  me  and  mine. 

Me  and  mine,  loose  windrows,  little  corpses, 

Froth,  snowy  white,  and  bubbles, 

(See,  from  my  dead  lips  the  ooze  exuding  at  last. 

See,  the  prismatic  colours  glistening  and  rolling), 

Tufts  of  straw,  sands,  fragments, 

Buoy'd  hither  from  many  moods,  one  contradicting  another, 

From  the  storm,  the  long  calm,  the  darkness,  the  swell, 

Musing,  pondering,  a  breath,  a  briny  tear,  a  dab  of  liquid 
or  soil, 

Up  just  as  much  out  of  fathomless  workings  fermented  and 
thrown, 

A  limp  blossom  or  two,  torn,  just  as  much  over  waves  floating, 
drifted  at  random, 

Jur-t  as  much  for  us  that  sobbing  dirge  of  Nature, 

Just  as  much  whence  we  comes  that  blare  of  the  cloud- 
trumpets, 

We,  capricious,  brought  hither  we  know  not  whence,  spread 
out  before  you, 

You  up  there  walking  or  sitting, 

Whoever  you  are,  we  too  lie  in  drifts  at  your  feet 

TEARS 

TEARS!  tears!  tears! 

In  the  night,  in  solitude,  tears, 

On  the  white  shore  dripping,  dripping,  suck'd  in  by  the  sand, 

Tears,  not  a  star  shining,  all  dark  and  desolate, 

Moist  tears  from  the  eyes  of  a  muffled  head; 

O  who  is  that  ghost?  that  form  in  the  dark,  with  tears? 

What  shapeless  lump  is  that,  bent,  crouch'd  there  on  the  sand  ? 

Streaming  tears,  sobbing  tears,  throes,  choked  with  wild  cries ; 

O  storm,  embodied,  rising,  careering  with  soft  steps  along  the 
beach ! 

O  wild  and  dismal  night  storm,  with  wind — O  belching  and 
desperate ! 

O  shade  so  sedate  and  decorous  by  day,  with  calm  countenance 
and  regulated  pace, 

But  away  at  night  as  you  fly,  none  looking — O  then  the  un 
loosen^  ocean, 

Of  tears!  tears!  tears  I 


222  Leaves  of  Grass 

TO  THE  MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 

THOU  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 
Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions, 
(Burst  the  wild  storm?  above  it  thou  ascended'st, 
And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee), 
Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating, 
As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee, 
(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast). 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the   night's   fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the   shore  with 

wrecks, 

With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene, 
The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale  (thou  art  all  wings), 

To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane, 

Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 

Days,  even  weeks  untired  and  onward,  through  spaces,  realms 

gyrating, 

At  dusk  that  look'd  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder-cloud, 
In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou  my  soul. 
What  joys!  what  joys  were  thine! 

ABOARD  AT  A  SHIP'S  HELM 

ABOARD  at  a  ship's  helm, 

A  young  steersman  steering  with  care. 

Through  fog  on  a  sea-coast  dolefully  ringing, 

An  ocean-bell — O  a  warning  bell,  rock'd  by  the  waves. 

O  you  give  good  notice  indeed,  you  bell  by  the  sea-reefs  ringing, 
Ringing,  ringing,  to  warn  the  ship  from  its  wreck-place. 

For  as  on  the  alert,  O  steersman,  you  mind  the  loud  admonition, 
The  bows  turn,  the  freighted  ship  tacking  speeds  away  under 

her  grey  sails, 
The  beautiful  and  noble  ship  with  all  her  precious   wealth 

speeds  away  gaily  and  safe. 


Sea-Drift  223 

But  O  the  ship,  the  immortal  ship !  O  ship  aboard  the  ship ! 
Ship    of    the    body,    ship    of    the    soul,    voyaging,    voyaging, 
voyaging. 

ON  THE  BEACH  AT  NIGHT 

ON  the  beach  at  night, 
Stands  a  child  with  her  father, 
Watching  the  east,  the  autumn  sky. 

Up  through  the  darkness, 

While   ravening  clouds,   the   burial   clouds,   in  black  masses 

spreading, 

Lower  sullen  and  fast  athwart  and  down  the  sky, 
Amid  a  transparent  clear  belt  of  ether  yet  left  in  the  east. 
Ascends  large  and  calm  the  lord-star  Jupiter, 
And  nigh  at  hand,  only  a  very  little  above, 
Swim  the  delicate  sisters  the  Pleiades. 

From  the  beach  the  child  holding  the  hand  of  her  father, 
Those  burial-clouds  that  lower  victorious  soon  to  devour  all, 
Watching,  silently  weeps. 

Weep  not,  child, 

Weep  not,  my  darling, 

With  these  kisses  let  me  remove  your  tears, 

The  ravening  clouds  shall  not  long  be  victorious, 

They  shall  not  long  possess  the   sky,  they   devour  the  stars 

only  in  apparition, 
Jupiter  shall  emerge,  be  patient,  watch  again  another  night, 

the  Pleiades  shall  emerge, 
They  are  immortal,  all  those  stars  both  silvery  and  golden  shall 

shine  out  again, 
The  great  stars  and  the  little  ones  shall  shine  out  again,  they 

endure, 
The  vast  immortal  suns  and  the  long-enduring  pensive  moons 

shall  again  shine. 

Then,  dearest  child,  mournest  thou  only  for  Jupiter? 
Considerest  thou  alone  the  burial  of  the  stars? 

Something  there  is, 

(With  my  lips  soothing  thee,  adding  I  whisper, 


224  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  give  thee  the  first  suggestion,  the  problem  and  indirection), 
Something  there  is  more  immortal  even  than  the  stars, 
(Many  the  burials,  many  the  days  and  nights  passing  away), 
Something  that  shall  endure  longer  even  than  lustrous  Jupiter, 
Longer  than  sun  or  any  revolving  satellite, 
Or  the  radiant  sisters  the  Pleiades. 

THE  WORLD  BELOW  THE  BRINE 

THE  world  below  the  brine, 

Forests  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  the  branches  and  leaves, 

Sea-lettuce,  vast  lichens,  strange  flowers  and  seeds,  the  thick 
tangle,  openings,  and  pink  turf, 

Different  colours,  pale  grey  and  green,  purple,  white,  and  gold, 
the  play  of  light  through  the  water, 

Dumb  swimmers  there  among  the  rocks,  coral,  gluten,  grass, 
rushes,  and  the  aliment  of  the  swimmers, 

Sluggish  existences  grazing  there  suspended,  or  slowly  crawl 
ing  close  to  the  bottom, 

The  sperm-whale  at  the  surface  blowing  air  and  spray,  or 
disporting  with  his  flukes, 

The  leaden-eyed  shark,  the  walrus,  the  turtle,  the  hairy  sea- 
leopard,  and  the  sting-ray, 

Passions  there,  wars,  pursuits,  tribes,  sight  in  those  ocean- 
depths,  breathing  that  thick-breathing  air,  as  so  many  do, 

The  change  thence  to  the  sight  here,  and  to  the  subtle  air 
breathed  by  beings  like  us  who  walk  this  sphere, 

The  change  onward  from  ours  to  that  of  beings  who  walk 
other  spheres. 

ON  THE  BEACH  AT  NIGHT  ALONE 

ON  the  beach  at  night  alone, 

As  the  old  mother  sways  her  to  and  fro  singing  her  husky 

song, 
As  I  watch  the  bright  stars  shining,  I  think  a  thought  of  the 

clef  of  the  universes  and  of  the  future. 

A  vast  similitude  interlocks  all, 

All  spheres,  grown,  ungrown,  small,  large,  suns,  moons,  planets, 
All  distances    of    place    however    wide, 
All  distances  of  time,  all  inanimate  forms, 
All  souls,  all  living  bodies  though  they  be  ever  so  different, 
or  in  different  worlds, 


Sea  Drift 

All  gaseous,   watery,  vegetable,  mineral  processes,  the  fishes, 

the  brutes, 

All  nations,  colours,  barbarisms,   civilisations,   languages, 
All  identities  that  have  existed  or  may  exist  on  this  globe,  or 

any  globe, 

All  lives  and  deaths,  all  of  the  past,  present,  future, 
This  vast  similitude  spans  them,  and  always  has  spann'd, 
And  shall  for  ever  span  them  and  compactly  hold  and  enclose 

them. 

SONG  FOR  ALL  SEAS,  ALL  SHIPS 

1 

TO-DAY  a  rude  brief  recitative, 

Of  ships  sailing  the  seas,  each  with  its  special  flag  or  ship- 
signal, 

Of  unnamed  heroes  in  the  ships — of  waves  spreading  and 
spreading  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 

Of  dashing  spray,  and  the  winds  piping  and  blowing, 

And  out  of  these  a  chant  for  the  sailors  of  all  nations, 

Fitful,  like  a  surge. 

Of  sea-captains  young  or  old,  and  the  mates,  and  of  all 
intrepid  sailors, 

Of  the  few,  very  choice,  taciturn,  whom  fate  can  never  sur 
prise  nor  death  dismay, 

Pick'd  sparingly  without  noise  by  thee,  old  ocean,  chosen  by 
thee, 

Thou  sea  that  pickest  and  cullest  the  race  in  time,  and  unitest 
nations, 

Suckled  by  thee,  old  husky  nurse,  embodying  thee, 

Indomitable,  untamed  as  thee. 

(Ever   the   heroes    on   water   or    on    land,   by   ones   or   twos 

appearing, 
Ever  the  stock  preserved  and  never  lost,  though  rare,  enough 

for  seed  preserv'd.) 


Flaunt  out,  O  sea,  your  separate  flags  of  nations! 
Flaunt  out  visible  as   ever  the  various   ship-signals! 
But  do  you  reserve  especially  for  yourself  and  for  the  soul  of 
man  one  flag  above  all  the  rest, 


226  Leaves  of  Grass 

A   spiritual  woven   signal   for   all   nations,   emblem   of   man 

elate  above  death, 

Token  of  all  brave  captains  and  all  intrepid  sailors  and  mates, 
And  all  that  went  down  doing  their  duty, 
Reminiscent  of  them,  twined  from  all  intrepid  captains  young 

or  old, 
A  pennant  universal,  subtly  waving  all  time,  o'er  all  brave 

sailors, 
All  seas,  all  ships. 

PATROLLING  BARNEGAT 

WILD,  wild  the  storm,  and  the  sea  high  running, 
Steady  the  roar  of  the  gale,  with  incessant  undertone  mut 
tering, 

Shouts  of  demoniac  laughter  fitfully  piercing  and  pealing, 
Waves,  air,  midnight,  their  savagest  trinity  lashing, 
Out  in  the  shadows  there  milk-white  combs  careering, 
On  beachy  slush  and  sand  spirts  of  snow  fierce  slanting, 
Where  through  the  murk  the  easterly  death-wind  breasting, 
Through  cutting  swirl  and  spray  watchful  and  firm  advancing, 
(That  in  the  distance!    is   that  a  wreck?   is   the   red   signal 

flaring?) 

Slush  and  sand  of  the  beach  tireless  till  daylight  wending, 
Steadily,  slowly,  through  hoarse  roar  never  remitting, 
Along  the  midnight  edge  by  those  milk-white  combs  careering, 
A  group  of  dim,  weird  forms,  struggling,  the  night  confronting, 
That  savage  trinity  warily  watching. 

AFTER  THE   SEA-SHIP 

AFTER  the  sea-ship,  after  the  whistling  winds, 

After  the  white-grey  sails  taut  to  their  spars  and  ropes, 

Below,  a   myriad   myriad    waves   hastening,    lifting   up   their 

necks, 

Tending  in  ceaseless  flow  toward  the  track  of  the  ship, 
Waves  of  the  ocean  bubbling  and  gurgling,  blithely  prying, 
Waves,  undulating  waves,  liquid,  uneven,  emulous  waves, 
Toward   that   whirling  current,   laughing   and   buoyant,   with 

curves, 

Where  the  great  vessel  sailing  and  tacking  displaced  the  sur 
face, 


Sea  Drift  227 

Larger  and  smaller  waves  in  the  spread  of  the  ocean  yearn- 
fully  flowing, 

The  wake  of  the  sea-ship  after  she  passes,  flashing  and  frolic 
some  under  the  sun, 

A  motley  procession  with  many  a  fleck  of  foam  and  many 
fragments, 

Following  the  stately  and  rapid  ship,  in  the  wake  following. 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE 

A  BOSTON  BALLAD 
(1854) 

To  get  betimes  in  Boston  town  I  rose  this  morning  early, 
Here's  a  good  place  at  the  corner,  I  must  stand  and  see  the 
show. 

Clear  the  way  there  Jonathan! 

Way   for  the   President's  marshal — way  for  the  government 

cannon ! 
Way  for  the  Federal  foot  and  dragoons  (and  the  apparitions 

copiously  tumbling). 

I  love  to  look  on  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  I  hope  the  fifes  will 
play  Yankee  Doodle. 

How  bright  shine  the  cutlasses  of  the  foremost  troops! 
Every  man  holds  his  revolver,  marching  stiff  through  Boston 
town. 

A  fog  follows,  antiques  of  the  same  come  limping, 
Some  appear  wooden-legged,  and  some  appear  bandaged  and 
bloodless. 

Why  this  is  indeed  a  show — it  has  called  the  dead  out  of  the 

earth ! 

The  old  graveyards  of  the  hills  have  hurried  to  see ! 
Phantoms !  phantoms  countless  by  flank  and  rear ! 
Cock'd  hats  of  mothy  mould — crutches  made  of  mist! 
Arms  in  slings — old  men  leaning  on  young  men's   shoulders. 

What  troubles  you  Yankee  phantoms?  what  is  all  this  chatter 
ing  of  bare  gums? 

228 


By  the  Roadside  229 

Does  the  ague  convulse  your  limbs?  do  you  mistake  your 
crutches  for  firelocks  and  level  them? 

If  you  blind  your  eyes  with  tears  you  will  not  see  the  Presi 
dent's  marshal, 

If  you  groan  such  groans  you  might  balk  the  government 
cannon. 

For  shame  old  maniacs — bring  down  those  toss'd  arms,  and 
let  your  white  hair  be, 

Here  gape  your  great  grandsons,  their  wives  gaze  at  them 
from  the  windows, 

See  how  well  dress'd,  see  how  orderly  they  conduct  them 
selves. 

Worse  and  worse — can't  you  stand  it?  are  you  retreating? 
Is  this  hour  with  the  living  too  dead   for  you? 

Retreat  then — pell-mell ! 

To  your  graves — back — back  to  the  hills  old  limpersl 

I  do  not  think  you  belong  here  anyhow. 

But  there  is  one  thing  that  belongs  here — shall  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  gentlemen  of  Boston? 

I  will  whisper  it  to  the  Mayor,  he  shall  send  a  committee  to 
England, 

They  shall  get  a  grant  from  the  Parliament,  go  with  a  cart  to 
the  royal  vault, 

Dig  out  King  George's  coffin,  unwrap  him  quick  from  the 
grave-clothes,  box  up  his  bones  for  a  journey, 

Find  a  swift  Yankee  clipper — here  is  freight  for  you,  black- 
bellied  clipper, 

Up  with  your  anchor — shake  out  your  sails — steer  straight 
toward  Boston  bay. 

Now  call  for  the  President's  marshal  again,  bring  out  the 
government  cannon, 

Fetch  home  the  roarers  from  Congress,  make  another  proces 
sion,  guard  it  with  foot  and  dragoons. 

This  centre-piece  for  them ; 

Look,  all  orderly  citizens — look  from   the  windows,  women! 


230  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  committee  open  the  box,  set  up  the  regal  ribs,  glue  those 

that  will   not   stay, 
Clap  the  skull  on  top  of  the  ribs,  and  clap  a  crown  on  top 

of  the  skull. 

You  have  got  your  revenge,  old  buster — the  crown  is  come 
to  its  own,  and  more  than  its  own. 

Stick  your  hands  in  your  pockets,  Jonathan — you  are  a  made 

man  from  this  day, 
You  are  mighty  cute — and  here  is  one  of  your  bargains. 

EUROPE 
The  72nd  and  73rd  Years  of  These  States 

SUDDENLY  out  of  its  stale  and  drowsy  lair,  the  lair  of  slaves, 

Like  lightning  it  le'pt  forth  half  startled  at  itself, 

Its  feet  upon  the  ashes  and  the  rags,  its  hands  tight  to  the 

throats  of  kings. 
O  hope  and  faith! 

O  aching  close  of  exiled  patriots'  lives  I 
O  many  a  sicken'd  heart! 
Turn  back  unto  this  day  and  make  yourselves  afresh. 

And  you,  paid  to  defile  the  People — you  liars,  mark! 

Not  for  numberless  agonies,  murders,  lusts, 

For  court  thieving  in  its  manifold  mean  forms,  worming  from 

his   simplicity  the  poor  man's   wages, 
For  many  a  promise   sworn  by   royal   lips   and   broken   and 

laugh'd  at  in  the  breaking, 
Then  in  their  power  not  for  all  these  did  the  blows  strike 

revenge,  or  the  heads  of  the  nobles  fall; 
The  People  scorn'd   the   ferocity  of  kings. 

But  the  sweetness  of  mercy  brew'd  bitter  destruction,  and 
the  frighten'd  monarchs  come  back, 

Each  conies  in  state  with  his  train,  hangman,  priest,  tax- 
gatherer, 

Soldier,  lawyer,  lord,  jailer,  and  sycophant. 

Yet  behind  all  lowering  stealing,  lo,  a  shape, 
Vague   as   the   night,   draped   interminably,   head,    front,  and 
form,  in  scarlet  folds, 


By  the  Roadside  231 

Whose  face  and  eyes  none  may  see, 

Out  of  its  robes  only  this,  the  red  robes  lifted  by  the  arm, 
One  finger  crook'd  pointed  high  over  the  top,  like  the  head 
of  a  snake  appears. 

Meanwhile  corpses  lie  in  new-made  graves,  bloody  corpses  of 

young  men, 
The  rope  of  the  gibbet  hangs  heavily,  the  bullets  of  princes 

are  flying,  the  creatures  of  power  laugh  aloud, 
And  all  these  things  bear  fruits,  and  they  are  good. 

Those  corpses  of  young  men, 

Those  martyrs  that  hang  from  the  gibbets,  those  hearts  pierc'd 

by  the  grey  lead, 
Cold  and  motionless  as   they  seem   live  elsewhere  with  tin- 

slaughter'd  vitality. 

They  live  in  other  young  men,  O  kings! 

They  live  in  brothers  again  ready  to  defy  you, 

They  were  purified  by  death,  they  were  taught  and  exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  the  murder'd  for  freedom  but  grows  seed  for 

freedom,  in  its  turn  to  bear  seed, 
Which  the  winds  carry  afar  and  re-sow,  and  the  rains  and 

the  snows   nourish. 

Not  a  disembodied  spirit  can     .e  weapons  of  tyrants  let  loose, 
But  it  stalks  invisibly  over  the  earth,  whispering,  counselling, 
cautioning. 

Liberty,  let  others  despair  of  you — I  never  despair  of  you. 

Is   the  house   shut?   is  the  master  away? 
Nevertheless,  be  ready,  be  not  weary  of  watching, 
He  will  soon  return,  his  messengers  come  anon, 

A  HAND-MIRROR 

HOLD  it  up  sternly — see  this  it  sends  back   (who  is  it?  is  it 

you?) 

Outside  fair  costume,  within  ashes  and  filth, 
No  more  a  flashing  eye,  no  more  a  sonorous  voice  or  springy 

step, 
Now  some  slave's  eye,  voice,  hands,  step, 


232  Leaves  of  Grass 

A  drunkard's  breath,  unwholesome  eater's   face,  venerealee's 

flesh, 

Lungs  rotting  away  piecemeal,  stomach  sour  and  cankerous, 
Joints  rheumatic,  bowels  clogged  with  abomination, 
Blood  circulating  dark  and  poisonous  streams, 
Words  babble,  hearing  and  touch  callous, 
No  brain,  no  heart  left,  no  magnetism  of  sex; 
Such  from  one  look  in  this  looking-glass  ere  you  go  hence, 
Such  a  result  so  soon — and  from  such  a  beginning! 

GODS 

LOVER  divine  and  perfect  Comrade, 
Waiting  content,  invisible  yet,  but  certain, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Thou,   tnou,  the   Ideal   Man, 
Fair,  able,  beautiful,  content,  and  loving 
Complete  in  body  and  dilate  in  spirit, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

O  Death  (for  Life  has  served  its  turn), 
Opener  and  usher  to  the  heavenly  mansion, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Aught,  aught  of  mightiest,  best  I  see,  conceive,  or  know, 
(To  break  the  stagnant  tie — thee,  thee  to  free,  O  soul), 
Be  thou  my  God. 

All  great  ideas,  the  races'  aspirations, 
All  heorisms,  deeds  of  rapt  enthusiasts, 
Be  ye  my  Gods. 

Or  Time    and    Space, 

Or  shape  of   Earth  divine  and  wondrous, 
Or  some  fair  shape  I  viewing,  worship, 
Or  lustrous  orb  of  sun  or  star  by  night, 
Be  ye  my  Gods. 

GERMS 

FORMS,  qualities,  lives,  humanity,  language,  thoughts, 

The  ones  known,  and  the  ones  unknown,  the  ones  on  the  stars, 

The  stars  themselves,  some  shaped,  others  unshaped, 


By  the  Roadside  233 

Wonders  as  of  those  countries,  the  soil,  trees,  cities,  inhabi 
tants,  whatever  they  may  be, 

Splendid  suns,  the  moons  and  rings,  the  countless  combinations 
and  effects, 

Such-like,  and  as  good  as  such-like,  visible  here  or  anywhere, 
stand  provided  for  in  a  handful  of  space,  which  I  extend 
my  arm  and  half  enclose  with  my  hand, 

That  containing  the  start  of  each  and  all,  the  virtue,  the  germs 
of  all. 

THOUGHTS 

OF  ownership — as  if  one  fit  to  own  things  could  not  at  pleasure 
enter  upon  all,  and  incorporate  them  into  himself  or  herself  ; 

Of  vista — suppose  some  sight  in  arriere  through  the  formative 
chaos,  presuming  the  growth,  fullness,  life,  now  attain'd 
on  the  journey, 

(But  I  see  the  road  continued,  and  the  journey  ever  con 
tinued)  ; 

Of  what  was  once  lacking  on  earth,  and  in  due  time  has 
become  supplied — and  of  what  will  yet  be  supplied, 

Because  all  I  see  and  know  I  believe  to  have  its  main  purport 
in  what  will  yet  be  supplied. 

WHEN  I  HEARD  THE  LEARN'D  ASTRONOMER 

WHEN  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer, 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  before 

me, 
When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams,  to  add,  divide, 

and  measure  them, 
When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer  where  he  lectured  with 

much  applause  in  the  lecture-room, 
How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired  and  sick, 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time, 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 

PERFECTIONS 

ONLY  themselves  understand  themselves  and  the  like  of  them 
selves, 
As  souls  only  understand  souls. 


234  Leaves  of  Grass 

O   MEI  O  LIFE! 

0  ME!  O  life!  of  the  questions  of  these  recurring, 

Of  the  endless  trains  of  the  faithless,  of  cities  fill'd  with  the 

foolish, 
Of  myself  for  ever  reproaching  myself  (for  who  more  foolish 

than  I,  and  who  more   faithless?), 
Of  eyes  that  vainly  crave  the  light,  of  the  objects  mean,  of 

the  struggle  ever  renew'd, 
Of  the  poor  results  of  all,  of  the  plodding  and  sordid  crowds 

I  see  around  me, 
Of  the  empty  and  useless  years  of  the  rest,  wit'.i  the  rest  me 

intertwined, 
The  question,   O   me!    so   sad,    recurring — What  good   amid 

these,  O  me,  O  life? 

Answer 

That  you  are  here — that  life  exists  and  identity, 
That  the  powerful  play  goes  on,  and  you  may  contribute  a 
verse. 

TO   A    PRESIDENT 

ALL  you  are  doing  and  saying  is  to  America  dangled  mirages, 
You  have  not  learn'd  of  Nature — of  the  politics  of  Nature 
you  have  not  learn'd  the  great  amplitude,   rectitude,  im 
partiality, 

You  have  not  seen  that  only  such  as  they  are  for  these  States, 
And  that  what  is  less  than  they  must  sooner  or  later  lift  off 
from  these  States. 

I   SIT  AND  LOOK  OUT 

1  SIT  and  look  upon  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  upon 

all  oppression  and  shame, 

I  hear  secret  convulsive  sobs  from  young  men  at  anguish 
with  themselves,  remorseful  after  deeds  done, 

I  see  in  low  life  the  mother  misused  by  her  children,  dying, 
neglected,  gaunt,  desperate, 

1  see  the  wife  misused  by  her  husband,  I  see  the  treacherous 
seducer  of  young  women, 

I  mark  the  ranklings  of  jealously  and  unrequited  love  at 
tempted  to  be  hid,  I  see  these  sights  on  the  earth, 


By  the  Roadside  235 

I  see  the  workings  of  battle,  pestilence,  tyranny,  I  see  martyrs 
and  prisoners, 

I  observe  a  famine  at  sea,  I  observe  the  sailors  casting  lots 
who  shall  be  kill'd  to  preserve  the  lives  of  the  rest, 

I  observe  the  slights  and  degradations  cast  by  arrogant  per 
sons  upon  labourers,  the  poor,  and  upon  negroes,  and 
the  like; 

All  these — all  the  meanness  and  agony  without  end  I  sitting 
look  out  upon, 

See,  hear,  and  am  silent. 


TO  RICH  GIVERS 

WHAT  you  give  me  I  cheerfully  accept, 

A  little  sustenance,  a  hut  and  garden,  a  little  money,   as   I 

rendezvous  with  my  poems, 
A  traveller's  lodging  and  breakfast  as  I  journey  through  the 

States — why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  such  gifts?  why 

to  advertise  for  them? 
For   I  myself  am   not  one  who  bestows  nothing  upon   man 

and  woman, 
For  I  bestow  upon  any  man  or  woman  the  entrance  to  all 

the  gifts  of  the  universe. 

THE  DALLIANCE  OF  THE   EAGLES 

SKIRTING  the  river  road  (my  forenoon  walk,  my  rest), 
Skyward    in    air   a   sudden    muffled    sound,   the    dalliance   of 

the  eagles, 

The  rushing  amorous  contact  high  in  space  together, 
The   clinching,    interlocking   claws,    a    living,    fierce,    gyrating 

wheel, 

Four  beating  wings,  two  beaks,  a  swirling  mass  tight  grappling, 
In    tumbling,    turning,    clustering    loops,    straight    downward 

falling, 

Till  o'er  the  river  pois'd,  the  twain  yet  one,  a  moment's  lull, 
A   motionless    still    balance    in    the    air,    then    parting,    talons 

loosing, 
Upward  again   on   slow-firm  pinions   slanting,   their   separate 

diverse  flight, 
She  hers,  he  his,  pursuing-. 


236  Leaves  of  Grass 

ROAMING  IN  THOUGHT 

(After  reading   HEGEL) 

ROAMING  in  thought  over  the  Universe,  I  saw  the  little  that 
is  Good  steadily  hastening  towards  immortality, 

And  the  vast  all  that  is  call'd  Evil  I  saw  hastening  to  merge 
itself  and  become  lost  and  dead. 

A  FARM  PICTURE 

THROUGH  the  ample  open  door  of  the  peaceful  country  barn, 
A  sunlit  pasture  field  with  cattle  and  horses  feeding, 
And  haze  and  vista,  and  the  far  horizon  fading  away. 

A   CHILD'S   AMAZE 

SILENT  and  amazed  even  when  a  little  boy, 

I  remember  I  heard  the  preacher  every  Sunday  put  God  in 

his  statements, 
As  contending  against  some  being  or  influence. 

THE    RUNNER 

ON  a  flat  road  runs  the  well-train'd  runner, 
He  is  lean  and  sinewy  with  muscular  legs, 
He  is  thinly  clothed,  he  leans  forward  as  he  runs, 
With  lightly  closed  fists  and  arms  partially  rais'd. 

BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN 

WOMEN  sit  or  move  to  and  fro,  some  old,  some  young, 
The  young  are  beautiful — but  the  old  are  more  beautiful  than 
the  young. 

MOTHER  AND  BABE 

I  SEE  the  sleeping  babe  nestling  the  breast  of  its  mother, 
The  sleeping  mother  and  babe — hush'd,  I  study  them  long  and 
long. 


By  the  Roadside  237 

THOUGHT 

OF  obedience,  faith,  adhesiveness ; 

As  I  stand  aloof  and  look  there  is  to  me  something  profoundly 

affecting  in  large  masses  of   men  following  the  lead  of 

those  who  do  not  believe  in  men. 

VISOR'D 

A  MASK,  a  perpetual  natural  disguiser  of  herself, 
Concealing  her  face,  concealing  her  form, 
Changes  and  transformations  every  hour,  every  moment, 
Falling  upon  her  even  when  she  sleeps. 

THOUGHT 

OF  Justice — as  if  Justice  could  be  anything  but  the  same  ample 
law,  expounded  by  natural  judges  and  saviours, 

As  if  it  might  be  this  thing  or  that  thing,  according  to 
decisions. 

GLIDING  O'ER  ALL 

GLIDING  o'er  all,  through  all, 
Through  Nature,  Time,  and  Space, 
As  a  ship  on  the  waters  advancing, 
The  voyage  of  the  soul — not  life  alone, 
Death,   many   deaths    I'll   sing. 

HAST  NEVER  COME  TO  THEE  AN  HOUR 

HAST  never  come  to  thee  an  hour, 

A  sudden  gleam  divine,  precipitating,  bursting  all  these  bub 
bles,  fashions,  wealth  ? 

These  eager  business  aims — books,  politics,  art,  amours, 
To   utter  nothingness? 

THOUGHT 

OF  Equality — as  if  it  harm'd  me,  giving  others  the  same 
chances  and  rights  as  myself — as  if  it  were  not  indis 
pensable  to  my  own  rights  that  others  possess  the  same. 


238  Leaves  of  Grass 

TO   OLD  AGE 

I  SEE  in  you  the  estuary  that  enlarges  and  spreads  itself 
grandly  as  it  pours  in  the  great  sea. 

LOCATIONS   AND   TIMES 

LOCATIONS  and  times — what  is  it  in  me  that  meets  them  all, 
whenever  and  wherever,  and  makes  me  at  home? 

Forms,  colours,  densities,  odours — what  is  it  in  me  that  corre 
sponds  with  them? 

OFFERINGS 

A  THOUSAND  perfect  men  and  women  appear, 
Around  each  gathers  a  cluster  of   friends,  and  gay  children 
and  youths,   with   offerings. 

TO  THE  STATES 

To  Indentify  the  16th,  17th,  or  18th  Presidentiad 

WHY  reclining,  interrogating?  why  myself  and  all  drowsing? 
What  deepening  twilight — scum  floating  atop  of  the  waters, 
Who  are  they  as  bats  and  night-dogs  askant  in  the  capitol? 
What  a  filthy  Presidentiad!    (O  South,  your  torrid  suns!  O 

North,  your  arctic  freezings!) 
Are  those  really  Congressmen;  are  those  the  great  Judges?  is 

that  the  President? 
Then  I  will  sleep  awhile  yet,  for  I  see  that  these  States  sleep, 

for    reasons ; 
(With  gathering  murk,  with  muttering  thunder  and  lambent 

shoots  we  all  duly  awake, 
South,  North,  East,  West,  inland  and  seaboard,  we  will  surely 

awake) . 


DRUM-TAPS 

FIRST  O  SONGS  FOR  A  PRELUDE 

FIRST  O  songs  for  a  prelude, 

Lightly  strike  on  the  stretch'd  tympanum  pride  and  joy  in 

my  city, 

How  she  led  the  rest  to  arms,  how  she  gave  the  cue, 
How  at  once  with  lithe  limb  unwaiting  a  moment  she  sprang, 
(O  superb!  O  Manhattan,  my  own,  my  peerless! 
O  strongest  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  in  crisis!   O   truer 

than  steel!) 
How  you  sprang — how  you  threw  off  the  costumes  of  peace 

with  indifferent  hand, 
How  your  soft  opera-music  changed,  and  the  drum  and  fife 

were  heard  in  their  stead, 
How  you  led  to  the  war   (that  shall  serve  for  our  prelude. 

songs  of  soldiers), 
How  Manhattan  drum-taps  led. 

Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading, 
Forty  years  as  a  pageant,  till  unawares  the  lady  of  this  teem 
ing  and  turbulent  city, 
Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable  wealth, 
With  her  million  children  around  her,  suddenly, 
At  dead  of   night,  at  news   from  the  south, 
Incens'd  struck  with  clinch'd  hand  the  pavement. 

A  shock  electric,  the  night  sustain'd  it, 

Till  with  ominous  hum  our  hive  at  daybreak  pour'd  out  its 

myriads. 
From  the  houses  then  and  the  workshops,  and  through  all  the 

doorways, 
Leapt  they  tumultuous,  and  lo !  Manhattan  arming. 

To  the  drum-taps  prompt, 
The  young  men  falling  in  and  arming, 

The  mechanics  arming  (the  trowel,  the  jack-plane,  the  black 
smith's  hammer,  tost  aside  with  precipitation), 


240  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  lawyer  leaving  his  office  and  arming,  the  judge  leaving  the 

court, 
The  driver  deserting  his  wagon  in  the  street,  jumping  down, 

throwing  the  reins  abruptly  down  on  the  horses'  backs, 
The  salesman  leaving  the  store,  the  boss,  book-keeper,  porter, 

all  leaving; 

Squads  gather  everywhere  by  common  consent  and  arm, 
The  new  recruits,  even  boys,  the  old  men  show  them  how  to 

wear  their  accoutrements,  they  buckle  the  straps  carefully, 
Outdoors  arming,   indoors  arming,  the  flash  of  the  musket- 
barrels, 
The  white  tents  cluster  in  camps,  the  arm'd  sentries  around, 

the  sunrise  cannon  and  again  at  sunset, 
Arm'd  regiments  arrive  every  day,  pass  through  the  city,  and 

embark  from  the  wharves, 
(How  good  they  look  as  they  tramp  down  to  the  river,  sweaty, 

with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders ! 
How  I  love  them!  how  I  could  hug  them,  with  their  brown 

faces  and  their  clothes  and  knapsacks  cover 'd  with  dust!) 
The  blood  of  the  city  up — arm'd  1  arm'd!  the  cry  everywhere, 
The  flags  flung  out  from  the  steeples  of  churches  and  from  all 

the  public  buildings  and  stores, 
The  tearful  parting,  the  mother  kisses  her  son,  the  son  kisses 

his  mother, 
(Loth  is  the  mother  to  part,  yet  not  a  word  does  she  speak 

to  detain  him), 
The   tumultuous    escort,   the   ranks    of    policemen    preceding, 

clearing  the  way, 
The  unpent  enthusiasm,  the  wild  cheers  of  the  crowd  for  their 

favourites, 
The  artillery,  the  silent  cannons  bright  as  gold,  drawn  along, 

rumble  lightly  over  the  stones, 
(Silent  cannons,  soon  to  cease  your  silence, 
Soon  unlimber'd  to  begin  the  red  business)  ; 
All  the  mutter  of  preparation,  all  the  determin'd  arming, 
The  hospital  service,  the  lint,  bandages,  and  medicines, 
The  women  volunteering  for  nurses,  the  work  begun  for  in 

earnest,  no  mere  parade  now; 
War !  an  arm'd  race  is  advancing !  the  welcome  for  battle,  no 

turning  away; 

War !  be  it  weeks,  months,  or  years,  an  arm'd  race  it  advanc 
ing  to  welcome  it. 


Drum-Taps  241 

Mannahatta  a-march— and  it's  O  to  sing  it  well ! 
It's  O  for  a  manly  life  in  the  camp. 

And  the  sturdy  artillery, 

The  guns  bright  as  gold,  the  work  for  giants,  to  serve  well 

the  guns, 
Unlimber  them !  (no  more  as  the  past  forty  years  for  salutes 

for  courtesies  merely, 
Put  in  something  now  besides  powder  and  wadding). 

And  you  lady  of  ships,  you  Mannahatta, 

Old  matron  of  this  proud,  friendly,  turbulent  city, 

Often    in   peace   and    wealth   you    were   pensive    or    covertly 

frown'd  amid  all  your  children, 
But  now  you  smile  with  joy  exulting  old  Mannahatta. 

EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-ONE 
ARM'D  year— year  of  the  struggle, 
No  dainty  rhymes  or  sentimental  love  verses  for  you,  terrible 

year, 
Not  you  as  some  pale  poetling  seated  at  a  desk  lisping  cadenzas 

piano, 
But  as  a  strong  man  erect,  clothed  in  blue  clothes,  advancing, 

carrying  a  rifle  on  your  shoulder, 
With  well-gristled  body  and  sunburnt  face  and  hands,  with  a 

knife  in  the  belt  at  your  side, 
As  I  heard  you  shouting  loud,  your  sonorous  voice  ringing 

across  the  continent, 

Your  masculine  voice,  O  year,  as  rising  amid  the  great  cities, 
Amid  the  men  of  Manhattan  I  saw  you  as  one  of  the  work 
men,  the  dwellers  in  Manhattan, 
Or  with  large  steps  crossing  the  prairies  out  of  Illinois  and 

Indiana, 
Rapidlly  crossing  the  West  with  springy  gait  and  descending 

the  Alleghanies, 
Or  down  from  the  great  lakes  or  in  Pennsylvania,  or  on  deck 

along  the  Ohio  river, 
Or  southward  along  the  Tennessee  or  Cumberland  rivers,  or 

at  Chattanooga  on  the  mountain  top, 
Saw  I  your  gait  and  saw  I  your  sinewy  limbs  clothed  in  blue, 

bearing  weapons,  robust  year, 

Heard  your  determin'd  voice  launch'd  forth  again  and  again, 
Year  that  suddenly  sang  by  the  mouths  of  the  round-lipp'd 

cannon, 
I  repeat  you,  hurrying,  crashing,  sad,  districted  year. 


242  Leaves  of  Grass 

BEAT!    BEAT!    DRUMS  I 

BEAT  !  beat !  drums ! — blow !  bugles  !  blow  I 

Through  the  windows — through  the  doors — burst  like  a  ruth 
less  force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation, 

Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying; 

Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet — no  happiness  must  he  have 
now  with  his  bride, 

Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  ploughing  his  field  or 
gathering  his  grain, 

So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound  you  drums — so  shrill  you 
bugles  blow. 

Beat!  beat!  drums! — blow!  bugles!  blow! 

Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  rumble  of  wheels  in  the 

streets ; 
Are  beds  prepared   for  sleepers  at  night  in  the  houses?  no 

sleepers  must  sleep  in  those  beds, 
No  bargainers'  bargains  by  day — no  brokers  or  speculators — 

would  they  continue? 
Would  the  talkers  be  talking?  would  the  singer  attempt  to 

sing? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case  before 

the  judge? 
Then  rattle  quicker,  heavier  drums — you  bugles  wilder  blow. 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow !  bugles !  blow  I 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 

Mind  not  the  timid — mind  not  the  weeper  or  prayer, 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 

Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's  entreaties, 

Make   even   the   trestles   to   shake  the   dead   where   they   lie 

awaiting  the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump,  O  terrible  drums — so  loud  you  bugles 

blow. 

FROM  PAUMANOK  STARTING  I  FLY  LIKE  A  BIRD 

FROM  Paumanok  starting  I  fly  like  a  bird, 

Around  and  around  to  soar  to  sing  the  idea  of  all, 

To  the  north  betaking  myself  to  sing  there  arctic  songs, 

To  Kanada  till  I  absorb  Kanada  in  myself,  to  Michigan  then, 


Drum-Taps  243 

To  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  Minnesota,  to  sing  their  songs  (they  are 

inimitable)  ; 
Then  to  Ohio  and  Indiana  to  sing  theirs,  to   Missouri  and 

Kansas  and  Arkansas  to  sing  theirs, 
To  Tennessee  and  Kentucky,  to  the  Carolinas  and  Georgia  to 

sing  theirs, 
To  Texas  and  so  along  up  toward  California,  to  roam  accepted 

everywhere ; 

To  sing  first  (to  the  tap  of  the  war-drum  if  need  be), 
The  idea  of  all,  of  the  Western  world  one  and  inseparable. 
And  then  the  song  of  each  member  of  these  States. 

SONG  OF  THE  BANNER  AT  DAYBREAK 
Poet 

O  A  new  song,  a  free  song, 

Flapping,   flapping,   flapping,   flapping,   by   sounds,   by   voices 

clearer, 

By  the  wind's  voice  and  that  of  the  drum, 
By  the  banner's  voice  and  child's  voice  and  sea's  voice  and 

father's   voice, 

Low  on  the  ground  and  high  in  the  air, 
On  the  ground  where  father  and  child  stand, 
In  the  upward  air  where  their  eyes  turn, 
Where  the  banner  at  daybreak  is  flapping. 

Words !  book-words  !  what  are  you  ? 

Words  no  more,  for  hearken  and  see, 

My  song  is  there  in  the  open  air,  and  I  must  sing, 

With  the  banner  and  pennant  a-flapping. 

I'll  weave  the  chord  and  twine  in, 

Man's   desire  and  babe's   desire,   I'll  twine   them  in,   I'll  put 

in  life, 
I'll  put  the  bayonet's  flashing  point,  I'll  let  bullets  and  slugs 

whizz, 

(As  one  carrying  a  symbol  and  menace  far  into  the  future, 
Crying  with  trumpet  voice,  Arouse  and  beware!    Beware  and 

arouse!) 
I'll  pour  the  verse  with  streams  of  blood,  full  of  volition,  full 

of  joy, 

Then  loosen,  launch  forth,  to  go  and  compete, 
With  the  banner  and  pennant  a-flapping. 


244  Leaves  of  Grass 

Pennant 

Come  up  here,  bard,  bard, 
Come  up  here,  soul,  soul, 
Come  up  here,  dear  little  child, 

To  fly  in  in  the  clouds  and  winds  with  me,  and  play  with 
the  measureless  light. 

Child 

Father,  what  is  that  in  the  sky  beckoning  to  me  with  long 

finger  ? 
And  what  does  it  say  to  me  all  the  while? 

Father 

Nothing,   my  babe,   you   see   in   the  sky, 

And  nothing  at  all  to  you  it  says — but  look  you,  my  babe, 

Look  at  these  dazzling  things  in  the  houses,  and  see  you  the 

money-shops  opening, 
And  see  you  the  vehicles  preparing  to  crawl  along  the  streets 

with  goods; 

These,  ah,  these,  how  valued  and  toil'd  for  these  I 
How  envied  by  all  the  earth. 

Poet 

Fresh  and  rosy  red  the  sun  is  mounting  high, 

On  floats  the  sea  in  distant  blue  careering  through  its  channels, 

On  floats  the  wind  over  the  breast  of  the  sea  setting  in  toward 

land, 

The  great  steady  wind  from  west  or  west-by-south, 
Floating  so  buoyant  with  milk-white  foam  on  the  waters. 

But  I  am  not  the  sea  nor  the  red  sun, 

I  am  not  the  wind  with  girlish  laughter, 

Not  the  immense  wind  which  strengthens,  not  the  wind  which 

lashes, 

Not  the  spirit  that  ever  lashes  its  own  body  to  terror  and  death, 
But  I  am  that  which  unseen  comes  and  sings,  sings,  sings, 
Which  babbles  in  brooks  and  scoots  in  showers  on  the  land, 
Which  the  birds  know  in  the  woods  mornings  and  evenings, 
And  the  shore-sands  know  and  the  hissing  wave,  and  that 

banner  and  pennant, 
Aloft  there  flapping  and  flapping. 


Drum-Taps  245 

Child 

O  father  it  is  alive — it  is  full  of  people — it  has  children, 

0  now  it  seems  to  me  it  is  talking  to  its  children, 

1  hear  it — it  talks  to  me — O  it  is  wonderful! 

O  it  stretches — it  spreads  and  runs  so  fast — O  my  father, 
It  is  so  broad  it  covers  the  whole  sky. 

Father 

Cease,  cease,  my  foolish  babe, 

What  you  are  saying  is  sorrowful  to  me,  much  it  displeases 
me; 

Behold  with  the  rest  again  I  say,  behold  not  banners  and 
pennants  aloft, 

But  the  well-prepared  pavements  behold,  and  mark  the  solid- 
walled  houses. 

Banner  and  Pennant 

Speak  to  the  child  O  bard  of  Manhattan, 

To  our  children  all,  or  north  or  south  of  Manhattan, 

Point  this  day,  leaving  all  the  rest,  to  us  over  all — and  yet 

we  know  not  why, 

For  what  are  we,  mere  strips  of  cloth  profiting  nothing, 
Only  flapping  in  the  wind? 

Poet 

I  hear  and  see  not  strips  of  cloth  alone, 

I  hear  the  tramp   of   armies,   I   hear  the  challenging   sentry, 

I  hear  the  jubilant  shouts  of  millions  of  men,  I  hear  Liberty  1 

I  hear  the  drums  beat  and  the  trumpets  blowing, 

I  myself  move  abroad  swift-rising  flying  then, 

I  use  the  wings  of  the  land-bird  and  use  the  wings  of  the 

seabird,  and  look  down  as  from  a  height, 
I  do  not  deny  the  precious  results  of  peace,  I  see  populous 

cities  with  wealth  incalculable, 
I  see  numberless   farms,  I  see  the  farmers  working  in  their 

fields  or  barns, 
I  see  mechanics  working,  I  see  buildings  everywhere  founded, 

going  up.  or  finish'd, 
I   see  trains  of   cars  swiftly   speeding  along   railroad  tracks 

drawn  by  the  locomotives, 


246  Leaves  of  Grass 

I   see  the   stores,   depots,   of   Boston,   Baltimore,    Charleston, 

New  Orleans, 
I  see  far   in  the  West  the   immense  area  of  grain,   I   dwell 

awhile  hovering, 
I  pass  to  the  lumber  forests  of  the  North,  and  again  to  the 

Southern  plantation,  and  again  to  California; 
Sweeping  the  whole  I  see  the  countless  profit,  the  busy  gather- 

ings,  earn'd  wages, 
See    the    Identity    formed    out    of    thirty-eight    spacious    and 

haughty  States  (and  many  more  to  come), 
See  forts  on  the  shores  of  harbours,  see  ships  sailing  in  and 

out; 
Then  over  all   (aye!  aye!)   my  little  and  lengthen'd  pennant 

shaped  like  a  sword, 
Runs  swiftly  up  indicating  war  and   defiance — and  now  the 

halyards  have  rais'd   it, 

Side  of  my  banner  broad  and  blue,  side  of  my  starry  banner, 
Discarding  peace  over  all  the  sea  and  land. 

Banner  and  Pennant 

Yet  louder,  higher,  stronger,  bard!  yet  farther,  wider  cleave! 
No  longer  let  our  children  deem  us  riches  and  peace  alone, 
We  may  be  terror  and  carnage,  and  are  so  now, 
Not  now  are  we  any  one  of  these  spacious  and  naughty  States 

(nor  any  five,  nor  ten), 

Nor  market  nor  depot  we,  nor  money-bank  in  the  city, 
But  these  and  all,  and  the  brown  and  spreading  land,  and  the 

mines  below,  are  ours, 
And  the  shores  of  the  sea  are  ours,  and  the  rivers  great  and 

small, 
And  the  fields  they  moisten,  and  the  crops  and  the  fruits  are 

ours, 
Bays  and  channels  and  ships  sailing  in  and  out  are  ours — 

while  we  over  all, 
Over  the  area  spread  below,  the  three  or   four  millions  of 

square  miles,  the  capitals, 
The    forty  millions    of   people, — O    bard!    in    life  and   death 

supreme, 

We,  even  we,  henceforth  flaunt  out  masterful,  high  up  above, 
Not   for  the   present  alone,    for  a   thousand   years   chanting 

through  you, 
This  song  to  the  soul  of  one  poor  little  child. 


Drum-Taps  247 

Child 

O   my   father,   I   like   not   the   houses, 

They  will  never  to  be  be  anything,  nor  do  I  like  money, 

But  to  mount  up  there  I  would  like,  O  father  dear,  that  banner 

I  like, 
That  pennant  I  would  be  and  must  be. 

Father 

Child  of  mine,  you  fill  me  with  anguish, 
To  be  that  pennant  would  be  too  fearful, 
Little  you  know  what  it  is  this  day,  and  after  this  day, 

for  ever, 

It  is  to  gain  nothing,  but  risk  and  defy  everything, 
Forward  to  stand  in  front  of  wars— and  O,  such  wars  1— what 

have  you   to   do   with   them? 
With  passions  of  demons,  slaughter,  premature  death? 

Banner 

Demons  and  death  then  I  sing, 

Put  in  all,  aye  all  will  I,  sword-shaped  pennant  for  war, 

And  a  pleasure  new  and  ecstatic,  and  the  prattled  yearning  of 

children, 
Blent  with  the  sounds  of  the  peaceful  land  and  the  liquid  wash 

of  the  sea, 

And  the  black  ships  fighting  on  the  sea  envelop'd  in  smoke, 
And  the  icy  cool  of  the  far,  far  north,  with  rustling  cedars 

and  pines, 
And  the  whirr  of  drums  and  the  sound  of  soldiers  marching, 

and  the  hot  sun  shining  south, 
And  the  beach-waves  combing  over  the  beach  on  my  Eastern 

shore,  and  my  Western  shore  the  same, 

And  all  between  those  shores,  and  my  ever  running  Missis 
sippi  with  bends  and  chutes, 
And  my  Illinois  fields,  and  my  Kansas  fields,  and  my  fields 

of  Missouri, 
The  Continent,  devoting  the  whole  identity  without  reserving 

an  atom, 
Pour  in  !  whelm  that  which  asks,  which  sings,  with  all  and 

the  yield  of  all, 


248  Leave?  of  Grass 

Fusing  and  holding,  claiming,  devouring  the  whole, 

No  more  with  tender  lip,  ..or  musical  labial  sound, 

But  out  of  the  night  emerging  for  good,  our  voice  persuasive 

no  more, 
Croaking  like  crows  here  in  the  wind. 

Poet 

My  limbs,  my  veins  dilate,  my  theme  is  clear  at  last, 

Banner   so   broad   advancing   out   of    the   night,    I    sing  you 

haughty  and  resolute, 
I  burst  through  where  I  waited  long,  too  long,  deafen'd  and 

blinded, 
My  hearing  and  tongue  are  come  to  me  (a  little  child  taught 

me), 
I  hear  from  above,  O  pennant  of  war,  your  ironical  call  and 

demand, 
Insensate!    Insensate!     (yet    I    at    any    rate    chant    you)    O 

banner ! 
Not  houses  of  peace  indeed  are  you,  nor  any  nor  all  their 

prosperity  (if  need  be,  you  shall  again  have  every  one  of 

those  houses  to  destroy  them, 
You  thought  not  to  destroy  those  valuable  houses,  standing 

fast,  full  of  comfort,  built  with  money, 
May  they  stand  fast,  then  ?  not  an  hour  except  you  above  them 

and  all   stand    fast)  ; 
O  banner,  not  money  so  precious  are  you,  not  farm  produce 

you,  nor  the  material  good  nutriment, 

Nor  excellent  stores,  nor  landed  on  wharves  from  the  ships, 
Not  the  superb  ships  with  sail-power  or  steam-power,  fetching 

and  carrying  cargoes, 
Nor    machinery,   vehicles,    trade,    nor    revenues — but    you    as 

henceforth  I  see  you, 
Running  up  out  of  the  night,  bringing  your  cluster  of  stars 

(ever-enlarging  stars), 
Divider  of  daybreak  you,  cutting  the  air,  touch'd  by  the  sun, 

measuring  the  sky, 

(Passionately  seen  and  yearn'd   for  by  one  poor  little  child, 
While  others  remain  busy  or  smartly  talking,  for  ever  teach 
ing  thrift,  thrift)  ; 
O  you  up  there !  O  pennant !  where  you  undulate  like  a  snake 

hissing  so  curious, 


Drum-Taps  249 

0  /t  of  reach,  an  idea  only,  yet  furiously  fought  for,  risking 

bloody  death,  loved  by  me, 

So  loved — O  you  banner  leading  the  day  with  stars  brought 
from  the  night! 

Valueless,  object  of  eyes,  over  all  and  demanding  all — (abso 
lute  owner  of  all) — O  banner  and  pennant! 

1  too   leave   the   rest — great   as   it   is,   it   is   nothing — houses, 

machines  are  nothing — I  see  them  not, 
I  see  but  you,  O  warlike  pennant!  O  banner  so  broad,  with 

stripes,  I  sing  you  only, 
Flapping  up  there  in  the  wind. 


RISE,  O  DAYS,  FROM  YOUR  FATHOMLESS  DEEPS 

1 

RISE,  O  days,  from  your  fathomless  deeps,  till  you  loftier, 

fiercer  sweep, 
Long  for  my  soul  hungering  gymnastic  I  devour'd  what  the 

earth  gave  me, 
Long    I    roam'd   the   woods   of    the    north,   long    I    watch'd 

Niagara  pouring, 
I  travell'd  the  prairies  over  and  slept  on  their  breast,  I  cross'd 

the  Nevadas,  I  cross'd  the  plateaus, 
I  ascended  the  towering  rocks  along  the  Pacific,  I  sail'd  out  to 

sea, 

I  sail'd  through  the  storm,  I  was  refresh'd  by  the  storm, 
I  watch'd  with  joy  the  threatening  maws  of  the  waves, 
I  mark'd  the  white  combs  where  they  career'd  so  high,  curling 

over, 

I  heard  the  wind  piping,  I  saw  the  black  clouds, 
Saw  from  below  what  arose  and  mounted  (O  superb !  O  wild 

as  my  heart,  and  powerful!), 

Heard  the  continuous  thunder  as  it  bellow'd  after  the  lightning, 
Noted  the  slender  and  jagged  threads  of  lightning  as  sudden 

and    fast   amid   the   din    they   chased   each   other   across 

the  sky; 
These,  and  such  as   these,   I,  elate,   saw— saw   with   wonder, 

yet  pensive  and  masterful, 

All  the  menacing  might  of  the  globe  uprisen  around  $  me, 
Yet  there  with  rrvy  soul  I  fed,  I  fed  content,  supercilious. 


250  Leaves  of  Grass 

2 

Tvvas  well,  O  soul — 'twas  a  good  preparation  you  gave  me, 

Now  we  advance  our  latent  and  ampler  hunger  to  fill, 

Now  we  go   forth  to  receive  what  the  earth  and  sea  never 

gave  us, 
Not    through    the    mighty    woods    we    go,    but    through    the 

mightier  cities, 

Something  for  us  is  pouring  now  more  than  Niagara  pouring, 
Torrents  of  men    (sources  and  rills  of  the  North-west,  are 

you  indeed  inexhaustible?), 
What,  to  pavements  and  homesteads  here,  what  were  those 

storms  of  the  mountains  and  sea? 
What,  to  passions  I  witness  around  me  to-day?  was  the  sea 

risen  ? 

Was  the  wind  piping  the  pipe  of  death  under  the  black  clouds? 
Lo!  from  deeps  more  unfathomable,  something  more  deadly 

and  savage, 
Manhattan  rising,  advancing  with  menacing  front — Cincinnati, 

Chicago,  unchain'd; 
What  was  that  swell  I  saw  on  the  ocean?  behold  what  comes 

here, 

How  it  climbs  with  daring  feet  and  hands — how  it  dashes  1 
How  the  true  thunder  bellows  after  the  lightning — how  bright 

the  flashes  of  lightning! 
How    Democracy   with    desperate    vengeful   port    strides    on, 

shown  through  the  dark  by  those  flashes  of  lightning ! 
(Yet  mournful  wail  and  low  sob  I  fancied  I  heard  through 

the  dark, 
In  a  lull  of  the  deafening  confusion.) 

3 

Thunder   on!    stride    on,    Democracy!    strike    with    vengeful 

stroke ! 

And  do  you  rise  higher  than  ever  yet,  O  days,  O  cities! 
Crash  heavier,  heavier  yet,  O  storms !  you  have  done  me  good, 
My   soul   prepared   in   the   mountains   absorbs   your   immortal 

strong  nutriment, 
Long  had  I  walk'd  my  cities,  my  country  roads  through  farms, 

only  half  satisfied, 
One  doubt  nauseous  undulating  like  a  snake,  crawl'd  on  the 

ground  before  me, 


Drum-Taps  251 

Continually  preceding  my  steps,  turning  upon  me  oft,  iron 
ically  hissing  low ; 

The  cities  I  loved  so  well  I  abandon'd  and  left,  I  sped  to 
the  certainties  suitable  to  me, 

Hungering,  hungering,  hungering,  for  primal  energies  and 
Nature's  dauntlessness, 

I  refresh'd  myself  with  it  only,  I  could  relish  it  only, 

I  waited  the  bursting  forth  of  the  pent  fire — on  the  water  and 
air  I  waited  long; 

But  now  I  no  longer  wait,  I  am  fully  satisfied,  I  am  glutted, 

I  have  witness'd  the  true  lightning,  I  have  witness'd  my  cities 
electric, 

I  have  lived  to  behold  man  burst  forth  and  warlike  America  rise, 

Hence  I  will  seek  no  more  the  food  of  the  northern  solitary 
wilds, 

No  more  the  mountains  roam  or  sail  the  stormy  sea. 

VIRGINIA— THE   WEST 

THE  noble  sire  fallen  on  evil  days, 
I  saw  with  hand  uplifted,  menacing,  brandishing, 
(Memories  of  old  in  abeyance,  love  and  faith  in  abeyance), 
The  insane  knife  toward  the  Mother  of  All. 

The  noble  son  on  sinewy  feet  advancing, 

I  saw,  out  of  the  land  of  prairies,  land  of  Ohio's  waters  and 

of  Indiana, 

To  the  rescue  the  stalwart  giant  hurry  his  plenteous  offspring, 
Brest  in  blue,  bearing  their  trusty  rifles  on  their  shoulders. 

Then  the  Mother  of  All  with  calm  voice  speaking, 

As  to  you  Rebellious  (I  seemed  to  hear  her  say),  why  strive 

against  me,  and  why  seek  my  life? 
When  you  yourself  for  ever  provide  to  defend  me? 
For  you  provided  we  Washington — and  now  these  also. 

CITY  OF  SHIPS 

CITY  of  ships! 

(O  the  black  ships!  O  the  fierce  ships! 

O  the  beautiful  sharp-bow'd  steamships  and  sail-ships!) 

City  of  the  world!  (for  all  races  are  here, 

All  the  lands  of  the  earth  make  contributions  here)  ; 

City  of  the  sea !  city  of  hurried  and  glittering  tides ! 


252  Leaves  of  Grass 

City  whose  gleeful  tides  continually  rush  or  recede,  whirling 
in  and  out  with  eddies  and  foam ! 

City  of  wharves  and  stores — city  of  tall  facades  of  marble 
and  iron  1 

Proud  and  passionate  city — mettlesome,  made,  extravagant 
city  I 

Spring  up,  O  city — not  for  peace  alone,  but  be  indeed  your 
self,  warlike! 

Fear  not — submit  to  no  models  but  your  own,  O  city ! 

Behold  me — incarnate  me  as  I  have  incarnated  you ! 

I  have  rejected  nothing  you  offer'd  me — whom  you  adopted 
I  have  adopted, 

Good  or  bad  I  never  question  you — I  love  all — I  do  not  con 
demn  anything, 

I  chant  and  celebrate  all  that  is  yours — yet  peace  no  more, 

In  peace  I  chanted  peace,  but  now  the  drum  of  war  is  mine, 

War,  red  war  is  my  song  through  your  streets,  O  city! 

THE  CENTENARIAN'S  STORY 

Volunteer  of  1861-2  (at  Washington  Park,  Brooklyn,  assisting 
the  Centenarian) 

GIVE  me  your  hand,  old  Revolutionary, 

The  hill-top  is  nigh,  but  a  few  steps  (make  room,  gentlemen), 
Up  the  path  you  have  follow'd  me  well,  spite  of  your  hun 
dred  and  extra  years, 

You  can  walk,  old  man,  though  your  eyes  are  almost  done, 
Your   faculties   serve  you,  and  presently   I  must  have  them 
serve  me. 

Rest,  while  I  tell  what  the  crowd  around  us  means, 
On  the  plain  below  recruits  are  drilling  and  exercising, 
There  is  the  camp,  one  regiment  departs  to-morrow, 
Do  you  hear  the  officers  giving  their  orders? 
Do  you  hear  the  clank  of  the  muskets? 

Why,  what  comes  over  you  now,  old  man? 

Why  do  you  tremble  and  clutch  my  hand  so  convulsively? 

The   troops  are  but   drilling,   they  are  yet   surrounded    with 

smiles, 

Around  them  at  hand  the  well-drest  friends  and  the  women, 
While  splendid  and  warm  the  afternoon  sun  shines  down, 


Drum-Taps  253 

Green  the  midsummer  verdure  and  fresh  blows  the  dallying 

breeze, 
O'er  proud  and  peaceful  cities  and  arm  of  the  sea  between. 

But   drill   and  parade   are   over,   they  march  back  to  quarters, 
Only  hear  that  approval  of  hands!  hear  what  a  clapping! 

As  wending  the  crowds  now  part  and  disperse — but  we,  old 

man, 

Not  for  nothing  have  I  brought  you  hither — we  must  remain, 
You  to  speak  in  your  turn,  and  I  to  listen  and  tell. 

The  Centenarian 

When  I  clutch'd  your  hand  it  was  not  with  terror, 

But  suddenly  pouring  about  me  here  on  every  side, 

And  below  there  where  the  boys  were  drilling,  and  up  the 

slopes  they  ran, 
And  where  tents  are  pitch'd,  and  wherever  you  see  south  and 

south-east  and  south-west,  ; 

Over  hill,  across  lowlands,  and  in  the  skirts  of  woods, 
And  along  the  shores,  in  mire  (now  fill'd  over)   came  again 

and  suddenly  raged, 
As    eighty-five   years    a-gone   no  mere   parade    receiv'd    with 

applause  of    friends, 
But  a  battle  which  I  took  part  in  myself — aye,  long  ago  as  it 

is,  I  took  part  in  it, 
Walking  then  this  hill-top,  this  same  ground. 

Aye,  this  is  the  ground, 

My   blind   eyes   even   as   I   speak  behold   it  re-peopled   from 

graves, 

The  years  recede,  pavements  and  stately  houses  disappear, 
Rude  forts  appear  again,  the  old  hoop'd  guns  are  mounted, 
I  see  the  lines  of  rais'd  earth  stretching  from  river  to  bay, 
I  mark  the  vista  of  waters,  I  mark  the  uplands  and  slopes, 
Here  we  lay  encamp'd,  it  was  this  time  in  summer  also. 

As  I  talk  I  remember  all,  I  remember  the  Declaration, 

It  was  read  here,  the  whole  army  paraded,  it  was  read  to  us 

here, 
By  his  staff  surrounded  the  General  stood  in  the  middle,  he 

held  up  his  unsheath'd  sword, 
It  glitter'd  in  the  sun  in  full  sight  of  the  army. 


254  Leaves  of  Grass 

'Twas  a  bold  act  then — the  English  war-ships  had  just  arrived, 
We  could  watch  down  the  lower  bay  where  they  lay  at  anchor, 
And  the  transports  swarming  with  soldiers. 

A  few  days  more  and  they  landed,  and  then  the  battle. 

Twenty  thousand  were  brought  against  us, 
A  veteran  force  furnish'd  with  good  artillery 

I  tell  not  now  the  whole  of  the  battle, 

But  one  brigade  early  in   the   forenoon   order'd   forward  to 

engage  the  red-coats, 

Of  that  brigade  I  tell,  and  how  steadily  it  march'd, 
And  how  long  and  well  it  stood  confronting  death. 

W<ho  do  you  think  that  was  marching  steadily  sternly  con 
fronting  death? 

It  was  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men,  two  thousand  strong, 
Rais'd  in  Virginia  and  Maryland,  and  most  of  them  known 
personally  to  the  General. 

Jauntily  forward  they  went  with  quick  step  toward  Gowanus' 

waters, 
Till  of  a  sudden  unlook'd  for  by  denies  through  the  woods, 

gain'd  at  night, 
The  British  advancing,   rounding   in    from  the  east,   fiercely 

playing  their  guns, 
That  brigade  of  the  youngest  was  cut  off  and  at  the  enemy's 

mercy. 

The  General  watch'd  them  from  this  hill, 

They  made  repeated  desperate  attempts  to  burst  their  environ 
ment, 

Then  drew  close  together,  very  compact,  their  flag  flying  in 
the  middle, 

But  O  from  the  hills  how  the  cannon  were  thinning  and 
thinning  them! 

It  sickens  me  yet,  that  slaughter! 

I  saw  the  moisture  gather  in  drops  on  the  face  of  the  General, 

J  saw  how  he  wrung  his  hands  in  anguish. 

Meanwhile  the  British  manceuvr'd  to  draw  us  out  for  a  pitch'd 

battle, 
But  we  dared  not  trust  the  chances  of  a  pitch'd  battle. 


Drum-Taps  255 

We  fought  the  fight  in  detachments, 

Sallying  forth  we  fought  at  several  points,  but  in  each  the 

luck  was  against  us, 
Our  foe  advancing,  steadily  getting  the  best  of  it,  push'd  us 

back  to  the  works  on  this  hill, 
Till  we  turn'd  menacing  here,  and  then  he  left  us. 

That  was  the  going  out  of  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men, 

two  thousand  strong, 
Few  return'd,  nearly  all  remain  in  Brooklyn. 

That  and  here  my  General's  first  battle, 

No  women  looking  on  nor  sunshine  to  bask  in,  it  did  not 

conclude  with  applause, 
Nobody  clapp'd  hands  here  then. 

But  in  darkness,  in  mist  on  the  ground  under  a  chill  rain, 

Wearied  that  night  we  lay  foil'd  and  sullen, 

While  scornfully  laugh'd  many  an  arrogant  lord  off  against 

us  encamp'd, 
Quite  within  hearing,  feasting,  clinking  wine-glasses  together 

over  their  victory. 

So  dull  and  damp  and  another  day, 
But  the  night  of  that,  mist  lifting,  rain  ceasing, 
Silent  as  a  ghost  while  they  thought  they  were  sure  of  him, 
my  General  retreated. 

I  saw  him  at  the  river-side, 

Down  by  the  ferry  lit  by  torches,  hastening  the  embarcation; 

My   General  waited  till  the   soldiers  and  wounded   were  all 

passed  over, 
And  then  (it  was  just  ere  sunrise),  these  eyes  rested  on  him 

for  the  last  time. 


Every  one  else  seem'd  fill'd  with  gloom, 
Many  no  doubt  thought  of  capitulation. 

But  when  my  General  pass'd  me, 

As  he  stood  in  his  boat  and  look'd  toward  the  coming  sun, 

I  saw  something  different  from  capitulation. 


256  Leaves  of  Grass 

Terminus 

Enough,  the  Centenarian's  story  ends, 
The  two,  the  past  and  present,  have  interchanged, 
I  myself  as  connecter,  as  chansonnier  of  a  great  future,  am 
now  speaking. 

And  is  this  the  ground  Washington  trod? 

And  these  waters  I  listlessly  daily  cross,  are  these  the  waters 

he  cross'd, 
As    resolute   in    defeat   as    other   generals    in    their   proudest 

triumphs  ? 

I  must  copy  the  story,  and  send  it  eastward  and  westward, 
I   must  preserve  that   look   as    it   beam'd   on   you   rivers   of 
Brooklyn. 

See — as  the  annual  round  returns  the  phantoms  return, 

It  is  the  27th  of  August  and  the  British  have  landed, 

The  battle  begins  and  goes  against   us,  behold   through  the 

smoke  Washington's  face, 
The  brigade  of  Virginia  and  Maryland  have  march'd   forth 

to  intercept  the  enemy, 
They  are  cut  off,  murderous  artillery   from  the   hills  plays 

upon  them, 

Rank  after  rank  falls,  while  over  them  silently  droops  the  flag, 
Baptized  that  day  in  many  a  young  man's  bloody  wounds, 
In  death,   defeat,  and  sisters',   mothers'  tears. 

Ah,  hills  and  slopes  of  Brooklyn !   I  perceive  you  are  more 

valuable  than  your  owners  supposed; 
In  the  midst  of  you  stands  an  encampment  very  old, 
Stands  for  ever  the  camp  of  that  dead  brigade. 

CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 

A  LINE  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green  islands, 
They  take  a  serpentine  course,  their  arms  flash  in  the  sun — 

hark  to  the  musical  clank, 
Behold  the  silvery  river,  in  it  the  splashing  horses  loitering 

stop  to  drink, 
Behold    the    brown-faced    men,    each    group,    each    person    a 

picture,  the  negligent  rest  on  the  saddles, 


Drum-Taps  257 

Some  emerge  on  the  opposite  bank,  others  are  just  entering 

the  ford — while, 

Scarlet  and  blue  and   snowy  white, 
The  guidon   flags   flutter  gaily   in  the   wind. 

BIVOUAC  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  SIDE 

I  SEE  before  me  now  a  travelling  army  halting, 

Below  a  fertile  valley  spread,  with  barns  and  the  orchards  ol 
summer, 

Behind,  the  terraced  sides  of  a  mountain,  abrupt,  in  places  ris 
ing  high, 

Broken,  with  rocks,  with  clinging  cedars,  with  tall  shapes 
dingily  seen, 

The  numerous  camp-fires  scatter'd  near  and  far,  some  away  up 
on  the  mountain, 

The  shadowy  forms  of  men  and  horses,  looming,  large-sized, 
flickering, 

And  over  all  the  sky — the  sky !  far,  far  out  of  reach,  studded, 
breaking  out,  the  eternal  stars. 

AN  ARMY  CORPS  ON  THE  MARCH 

WITH  its  cloud  of  skirmishers  in  advance, 

With  now  the  sound  of  a  single  shot  snapping  like  a  whip,  and 

now  an   irregular  volley, 
The  swarming  ranks  press  on  and  on,  the  dense  brigades  press 

on, 

Glittering  dimly,  toiling  under  the  sun — the  dust-cover'd  men, 
In  columns  rise  and  fall  to  the  undulations  of  the  ground, 
With    artillery    interspers'd — the    v/heels    rumble,    the   horses 

sweat, 
As  the  army  corps  advances. 

BY  THE  BIVOUAC'S  FITFUL  FLAME 

BY  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame, 

A  procession  winding  around  me,  solemn  and  sweet  and  slow 

— but  first  I  note, 
The  tents  of  the  sleeping  army,  the  fields'  and  woods'  dim 

outline, 

The  darkness  lit  by  spots  are  kindled  fire,  the  silence, 
Like  a  phantom  far  or  near  an  occasional  figure  moving, 
The   shrubs  and  trees    (as   I  lift  my  eyes   they   seem  to  be 

stealthily  watching  me), 


258  Leaves  of  Grass 

While  wind  in  procession  thoughts,  O  tender  and  wondrous 

thoughts, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  home  and  the  past  and  loved,  and  of 

those  that  are  far  away; 

A  solemn  and  slow  procession  there  as  I  sit  on  the  ground, 
By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame. 

COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS,  FATHER 

COME  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here's  a  letter  from  pur  Pete, 
And  come  to  the  front  door,  mother,  here's  a  letter  from  thy 
dear  son. 

Lo,  'tis  autumn, 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages  with  leaves  fluttering  in  the 

moderate  wind, 
Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang  and  grapes  on  the 

trellis'd  vines, 

(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines? 
Smell  you  the  buckwheat  where  the  bees  were  lately  buzzing?) 
Above  all,  lo,  the  sky  so  calm,  so  transparent  after  the  rain, 

and  with  wondrous  clouds, 
Below   too,  all  calm,  all   vital  and  beautiful,  and   the   farm 

prospers  well. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well, 

But  now  from  the  fields  come,  father,  come  at  the  daughter's  call, 
And  come  to  the  entry,  mother,  to  the  front  door  come  right 
away. 

Fast  as   she  can   she  hurries,   something   ominous,   her   steps 

trembling, 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair  nor  adjust  her  cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly, 

O  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd, 

O  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son,  O  stricken  mother's 
soull 

All  swims  before  her  eyes,  flashes  with  black,  she  catches  the 
main  words  only, 

Sentences  broken,  gunshot  wound  in  the  breast,  cavalry  skirm 
ish,  taken  to  hospital, 

4t  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 


Drum-Taps  259 

Ah,  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid   all   teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio  with  all  its  cities  and  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother  (the  just-grown  daughter  speaks 

through  her  sobs, 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dismay 'd), 
See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will  soon  be  better. 

Alas,  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better  (nor  maybe  needs  to  be 

better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul), 

While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead  already, 
The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better, 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd,  then  at  night  fitfully  sleeping, 

often  waking, 

In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep  longing, 
O  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed,  silent  from  life  escape 

and  withdraw, 
To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son. 

VIGIL  STRANGE  I  KEPT  ON  THE  FIELD  ONE  NIGHT 

VIGIL  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night; 

When  you,  my  son  and  my  comrade,  dropt  at  my  side  that  day, 

One  look  I  but  gave  which  your  dear  eyes  return'd  with  a  look 

I  shall  never  forget, 
One  touch  of  your  hand  to  mine,  O  boy,  reach'd  up  as  you  lay 

on  the  ground, 

Then  onward  I  sped  in  the  battle,  the  even-contested  battle, 
Till  late  in  the  night  reliev'd  to  the  place  at  last  again  I  made 

my  way, 
Found  you  in  death  so  cold,  dear  comrade,  found  your  body, 

son  of  responding  kisses  (never  again  on  earth  responding), 
Bared  your  face  in  the  starlight,  curious  the  scene,  cool  blew 

the  moderate  night-wind, 
Long  there  and  then  in  vigil  I  stood,  dimly  around  me  the 

battle-field  spreading, 
Vigil  wondrous  and  vigil  sweet  there  in  the  fragrant  silent  night, 


260  Leaves  of  Grass 

But  not  a  tear  fell,  not  even  a  long-drawn  sigh,  long,  long  I 

gazed, 
Then  on  the  earth  partially  reclining  sat  by  your  side  leaning 

my  chin  in  my  hands, 
Passing  sweet  hours,   immortal  and  mystic  hours  with  you, 

dearest  comrade — not  a  tear,  not  a  word, 
-Vigil  of  silence,  love  and  death,  vigil  for  you,  my  son  and  my 

soldier, 
As  onward  silently  stars  aloft,  eastward  new  ones  upward  stole, 

-  Vigil  final  for  you,  brave  boy  (I  could  not  save  you,  swift  was 

your  death, 
I  faithfully  loved  you  and  cared  for  you  living,  I  think  we 

shall  surely  meet  again), 
Till  at  latest  lingering  of  the  night,  indeed  just  as  the  dawn 

appear'd, 

*  My  comrade  I  wrapt  in  his  blanket,  envelop'd  well  his  form, 
Folded  the  blanket  well,  tucking  it  carefully  over  head  and 

carefully  under  feet, 

And  there  and  then  and  bathed  by  the  rising  run,  my  son  in  his 
grave,  in  his  rude-dug  grave  I  deposited, 

Ending  my  vigil  strange  with  that,  vigil  of  night  and  battle 
field  dim, 

Vigil  for  boy  of  responding  kisses  (never  again  on  earth  re 
sponding), 

Vigil  for  comrade  swiftly  slain,  vigil  I  never  forget,  how  as 
day  brighten'd, 

I  rose  from  the  chill  ground  and  folded  my  soldier  well  in 
his  blanket, 

And  buried  him  where  he  fell. 

A  MARCH  IN  THE  RANKS  HARD-PREST,  AND  THE 
ROAD  UNKNOWN 

A  MARCH  in  the  ranks  hard-prest,  and  the  road  unknown, 
A  route  through  a  heavy  wood,  with  muffled  steps  in  the  darkness, 
Our  army  foil'd  with  loss  severe,  and  the  sullen  remnant  re 
treating, 

Till  after  midnight  glimmer  upon  us  the  lights  of  a  dim- 
lighted  building, 

We  come  to  an  open  space  in  the  woods,  and  halt  by  the  dim- 
lighted  building, 

Tis  a  large  old  church  at  the  crossing  roads,  now  an  im 
promptu  hospital, 


Drum-Taps  261 

Entering  but  for  a  minute  I  see  a  sight  beyond  all  the  pictures 

and  poems  ever  made, 
Shadows  of  deepest,  deepest  black,  just  lit  by  moving  candles 

and  lamps, 
And  by  one  great  pitchy  torch  stationary  with  wild  red  flame 

and  clouds  of  smoke, 
By  these  crowds,  groups  of  forms  vaguely  I  see  on  the  floor, 

some  in  the  pews  laid  down, 
At  my  feet  more  distinctly  a  soldier,  a  mere  lad,  in  danger  of 

bleeding  to  death  (he  is  shot  in  the  abdomen), 
I  stanch  the  blood  temporarily  (the  youngster's  face  is  white 

as  a  lily), 
Then  before  I  depart  I  sweep  my  eyes  o'er  the  scene  fain  to 

absorb  it  all, 
Faces,  varieties,  postures  beyond  description,  most  in  obscurity, 

some  of  them  dead, 
Surgeon  operating,  attendants  holding  lights,  the  smell  of  ether, 

the  odour  of  blood, 

The  crowd,  O  the  crowd  of  the  bloody  forms,  the  yard  out 
side  also  fill'd, 
Some  on  the  bare  ground,  some  on  planks  or  stretchers,  some 

in  the  death-spasm  sweating, 
An  occasional  scream  or  cry,  the  doctor's  shouted  orders  or 

calls, 
The  glisten  of  the  little  steel  instruments  catching  the  glint  of 

the  torches, 
These  I  resume  as  I  chant,  I  see  again  the  forms,  I  smell  the 

odour, 

Then  hear  outside  the  orders  given,  Fall  in,  my  men,  fall  in; 
But  first  I  bend  to  the  dying  lad,  his  eyes  open,  a  half-smile 

gives  he  me, 
Then  the  eyes  close,  calmly  close,  and  I  speed  forth  to  the 

darkness, 
Resuming,  marching,  ever   in   darkness  marching,  on  in  the 

ranks, 
The  unknown  road  still  marching. 

A  SIGHT  IN  CAMP  IN  THE  DAYBREAK  GREY 
AND  DIM 

A  SIGHT  in  camp  in  the  daybreak  grey  and  dim, 
As   from  my  tent  I  emerge  so  early  sleepless, 
As  slow  I  walk  in  the  cool  fresh  air  the  path  near  by  the  hos 
pital  tent, 


262  Leaves  of  Grass 

Three  forms  I  see  on  stretchers  lying,  brought  out  there  tm- 

tended  lying, 

Over  each  the  blanket  spread,  ample  brownish  woollen  blanket, 
Grey  and  heavy  blanket,  folding,  covering  all. 

Curious  I  halt  and  silent  stand, 

Then  with  light  fingers  I  from  the  face  of  the  nearest  the  first 

just  lift  the  blanket; 
Who  are  you  elderly  man  so  gaunt  and  grim,  with  well-grey 'd 

hair,  and  flesh  all  sunken  about  the  eyes? 
Who  are  you,  my  dear  comrade? 

Then  to  the  second  I  step — and  who  are  you,  my  child  and 

darling? 

Who  are  you  sweet  boy  with  cheeks  yet  blooming? 
Then  to  the  third — a  face  nor  child  nor  old,  very  calm,  as  of 

beautiful  yellow-white  ivory; 
Young  man,  I  think  I  know  you — I  think  this  face  is  the  face 

of  the  Christ  himself, 
Dead  and  divine  and  brother  of  all,  and  here  again  he  lies. 


AS  TOILSOME  I  WANDER'D  VIRGINIA'S  WOODS 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods, 

To  the  music  of  rustling  leaves  kick'd  by  my  feet  (for  'twas 

autumn), 

I  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of  a  soldier; 
Mortally  wounded  he  and  buried  on  the  retreat    (easily  all 

could  I  understand), 
The  halt  of  a  mid-day  hour  when  up!  no  time  to  lose — yet 

this  sign  left, 

On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nail'd  on  the  tree  by  the  grave, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go  wandering. 

Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and  many  a  scene  of  life, 

Yet  at  times  through  changeful  season  and  scene,  abrupt, 
alone,  or  in  the  crowded  street, 

Comes  before  me  the  unknown  soldier's  grave,  comes  the  in 
scription  rude  in  Virginia's  woods, 

Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 


Drum-Taps  263 

NOT  THE  PILOT 

NOT  the  pilot  has  charged  himself  to  bring  his  ship  into  port, 

though  beaten  back  and  many  times  baffled; 
Not  the  pathfinder  penetrating  inland  weary  and  long, 
By  deserts  parch'd,  snows  chill'd,  rivers  wet,  perseveres  till  he 

reaches  his  destination, 
More  than  I  have  charged  myself,  heeded  or  unheeded,  to 

compose  a  march  for  these  States, 
For  a  battle-call,  rousing  to  arms  if  need  be,  years,  centuries 

hence. 

YEAR  THAT  TREMBLED  AND  REEL'D  BENEATH  ME 

YEAR  that  trembled  and  reel'd  beneath  me  1 

Your  summer  wind  was  warm  enough,  yet  the  air  I  breathed 

froze  me, 

A  thick  gloom  fell  through  the  sunshine  and  darken'd  me, 
Must  I  change  my  triumphant  songs?  said  I  to  myself, 
Must  I  indeed  learn  to  chant  the  cold  dirges  of  the  baffled? 
And  sullen  hymns  of  defeat? 

THE  WOUND-DRESSER 


AN  old  man  bending  I  come  among  new  faces, 

Years  looking  backward  resuming  in  answer  to  children, 

Come  tell  us,  old  man,  as  from  young  men  and  maidens  that 

love  me, 
(Arous'd  and  angry,  I'd  thought  to  beat  the  alarum,  and  urge 

relentless  war, 
But  soon  my  fingers  fail'd  me,  my  face  droop'd  and  I  resigned 

myself, 
To  sit  by  the  wounded  and  soothe  them,  or  silently  watch  the 

dead;) 
Years  hence  of  these  scenes,  of  these  furious  passions,  these 

chances, 
Of  unsurpass'd  heroes  (was  one  side  so  brave?  the  other  was 

equally  brave;) 

Now  be  witness  again,  paint  the  mightiest  armies  of  earth, 
Of  those  armies  so  rapid,  so  wondrous,  what  saw  you  to  tell  us  ? 
What  stays  with  you  latest  and  deepest?  of  curious  panics, 
Of    hard-fought    engagements    or    sieges    tremendous    what 

deepest  remains? 


264  Leaves  of  Grass 

2 

O  maidens  and  young  men  I  love  and  that  love  me, 

What  you  ask  of  my  days  those  the  strangest  and  sudden 

your  talking  recalls, 
Soldier  alert  I  arrive  after  a  long  march  cover'd  with  sweat 

and  dust, 
In  the  nick  of  time  I  come,  plunge  in  the  fight,  loudly  shout  in 

the  rush  of  successful  charge, 
Enter  the  captur'd  works — yet  lo,  like  a  swift-running  river 

they  fade, 
Pass  and  are  gone  they  fade — I  dwell  not  on  soldiers'  perils 

or  soldiers'  joys, 
(Both  I  remember  well — many  the  hardships,  few  the  joys, 

yet  I  was  content). 
But  in  silence,  in  dreams'  projections, 

While  the  world  of  gain  and  appearance  and  mirth  goes  on, 
So  soon  what  is  over  forgotten,  and  waves  wash  the  imprints 

off  the  sand, 
With  hinged  knees  returning  I  enter  the  doors  (while  for  you 

up  there, 
Whoever  you  are,  follow  wtihout  noise  and  be  of  strong  heart) . 

Bearing  the  bandages,  water  and  sponge, 
Straight  and  swift  to  my  wounded  I  go, 
Where  they  lie  on  the  ground  after  the  battle  brought  in, 
Where  their  priceless  biood  reddens  the  grass,  the  ground, 
Or  to  the  rows  of  the  hospital  tent,  or  under  the  roof'd  hospital, 
To  the  long  rows  of  cots  up  and  down  each  side  I  return, 
To  each  and  all  one  after  another  I  draw  near,  not  one  do  I  miss, 
An  attendant  follows  holding  a  tray,  he  carries  a  refuse  pail, 
Soon  to  be  fill'd  with  clotted  rags  and  blood,  emptied,  and 
fill'd  again. 


I  onward  go,  I  stop, 

With  hinged  knees  and  steady  hand  to  dress  wounds, 

I  am  firm  with  each,  the  pangs  are  sharp  yet  unavoidable, 

One  turns  to  me  his  appealing  eyes — poor  boyl  I  never  knew 

you, 
Yet  I  think  I  could  not  refuse  this  moment  to  die  for  you,  if 

that  would  save  you. 


Drum-Taps  265 

3 

On,  on  I  go  (open  doors  of  time!  open  hospital  doors!) 
The  crush'd  head   I   dress    (poor   crazed  hand  tear  not  the 

bandage  away), 
The  neck  of   the  cavalry-man   with   the  bullet  through  and 

through  I  examine, 
Hard  the  breathing  rattles,  quite  glazed  already  the  eye,  yet 

life  struggles  hard, 

(Come  sweet  death!  be  persuaded  O  beautiful  death! 
In  mercy  come  quickly). 

From  the  stump  of  the  arm,  the  amputated  hand, 

I  undo  the  clotted  lint,  remove  the  slough,  wash  off  the  matter 
and  blood, 

Back  on  his  pillow  the  soldier  bends  with  curv'd  neck  and  side- 
falling  head, 

His  eyes  are  closed,  his  face  is  pale,  he  dares  not  look  on  the 
bloody  stump, 

And  has  not  yet  looked  on  it. 

I   dress  a  wound   in   the  side,  deep,   deep, 

But  a  day  or  two  more,  for  see  the  frame  all  wasted  and  sinking, 

And  the  yellow-blue  countenance  see. 

I  dress  the  perforated  shoulder,  the  foot  with  the  bullet-wound, 
Cleanse  the  one  with  a  gnawing  and  putrid  gangrene,  so  sick 
ening,  so  offensive, 
While  the  attendant  stands  behind  aside  me  holding  the  tray 
and  pail. 

I  am  faithful,  I  do  not  give  out, 

The  fractur'd  thigh,  the  knee,  the  wound  in  the  abdomen, 
These  and  more  I  dress  with  impassive  hand  (yet  deep  in  my 
breast  a  fire,  a  burning  flame). 


Thus  in  silence  in  dreams'  projections, 

Returning,  resuming,  I  thread  my  way  through  the  hospitals. 

The  hurt  and  wounded  I  pacify  with  soothing  hand, 

I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night,  some  are  so  young, 

Some  suffer  so  much,  I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad, 

(Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  cross'd 

and  rested, 
Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  tips). 


266  Leaves  of  Grass 

LONG,  TOO  LONG,  AMERICA 

LONG,  too  long,  America, 

Travelling  roads  all  even  and  peaceful  you  learn'd  from  joys 
and  prosperity  only, 

But  now,  ah  now,  to  learn  from  crises  of  anguish,  advancing, 
grappling  with  direst  fate  and  recoiling  not, 

And  now  to  conceive  and  show  to  the  world  what  your  chil 
dren  en-masse  really  are, 

(For  who  except  myself  has  yet  conceiv'd  what  your  children 
en-masse  really  are?) 

GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT  SUN 
1 

GIVE  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams  full-dazzling, 

Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit  ripe  and  red  from  the  orchard, 

Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmow'd  grass  grows, 

Give  me  an  arbour,  give  me  the  trellis'd  grape, 

Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat,  give  me  serene-moving  animals 

teaching  content, 
Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet  as  on  high  plateaus  west  of  the 

Mississippi,  and  I  looking  up  at  the  stars, 
Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise   a  garden   of   beautiful   flowers 

where  I  can  walk  undisturb'd, 
Give  me  for  marriage  a  sweet-breath'd  woman  of   whom   I 

should  never  tire, 
Give  me  a  perfect  child,  give  me  away  aside  from  the  noise 

of  the  world  a  rural  domestic  life, 
Give  me  to  warble  spontaneous  songs  recluse  by  myself,  for 

my  own  ears  only, 
Give  me  solitude,  give  me  Nature,  give  me  again  O  Nature 

your  primal  sanities! 

These  demanding  to  have  them    (tired  with  ceaseless  excite 
ment,  and  rack'd  by  the  war-strife), 
These  to  procure  incessantly  asking,  rising  in  cries  from  my 

heart, 

While  yet  incessantly  asking  still  I  adhere  to  my  city, 
Day  upon  day  and  year  upon  year,  O  city,  walking  your  streets, 
Where  you  hold  me  enchain'd  a  certain  time  refusing  to  give 
me  up, 


Drum-Taps  267 

Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enrich'd  of  soul,  you  give  me 

forever  faces ; 
(O  I  see  what  I  sought  to  escape,  confronting,  reversing  my 

cries, 
I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it  ask*d  for). 


Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun, 

Keep  your  woods,  O  Nature,  and  the  quiet  places  by  the  woods, 

Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your  corn-fields 

and  orchards, 
Keep  the  blossoming  buckwheat  fields  where  the  Ninth-month 

bees  hum; 
Give  me  faces  and  streets — give  me  these  phantoms  incessant 

and  endless  along  the  trottoirs ! 

Give  me  interminable  eyes — give  me  women — give  me  com 
rades  and  lovers  by  the  thousand ! 
Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day — let  me  hold  new  ones  by  the 

hand  every  day! 
Give  me  such  shows — give  me  the  streets  of  Manhattan ! 
Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  marching — give  me  the 

sound  of  the  trumpets  and  drums ! 
(The  soldiers  in  companies  or  regiments — some  starting  away, 

flush'd  and  reckless, 
Some,  their  time  up,  returning  with  thinn'd  ranks,  young,  yet 

very  old,  worn,  marching,  noticing  nothing;) 
Give  me  the  shores  and   wharves   heavy-fringed  with   black 

ships ! 

O  such  for  me !  O  an  intense  life,  full  to  repletion  and  varied  I 
The  life  of  the  theatre,  bar-room,  huge  hotel,   for  mel 
The  saloon  of  the  steamer!  the  crowded  excursion  for  me!  the 

torchlight  procession ! 
The  dense  brigade  bound  for  the  war,  with  high  piled  military 

wagons   following; 
People,    endless,     streaming,     v/ith     strong    voices,    passions, 

pageants, 
Manhattan    streets   with   their   powerful   throbs,   with  beating 

drums  as  now, 
The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle  and  clank  of  muskets 

(even  the  sight  of  the  wounded), 
Manhattan  crowds,  with  their  turbulent  musical  chorus! 
Manhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me. 


268  Leaves  of  Grass 

DIRGE  FOR  TWO  VETERANS 

THE  last  sunbeam 

Lightly  falls  from  the  finish'd  Sabbath, 
On  the  pavement  here,  and  there  beyond  it  is  looking, 

Down  a  new-made  double  grave. 

Lo,  the  moon  ascending, 
Up  from  the  east  the  silvery  round  moon, 
Beautiful  over  the  house-tops,  ghastly,  phantom  moonr 

Immense  and  silent  moon. 

I  see  a  sad  procession, 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  full-key 'd  bugles, 
All  the  channels  of  the  city  streets  they're  flooding, 

As  with  voices  and  with  tears. 

I  hear  the  great  drums  pounding, 
And  the  small  drums  steady  whirring, 
And  every  blow  of  the  great  convulsive  drums, 

Strikes  me  through  and  through. 

For  the  son  is  brought  with  the  father, 
(On  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  fierce  assault  they  fell, 
Two  veterans  son  and  father  dropt  together, 

And  the  double  grave  awaits  them). 

Now  nearer  blow  the  bugles, 
And  the  drums  strike  more  convulsive, 
And  the  daylight  o'er  the  pavement  quite  has  faded, 

And  the  strong  dead-march  enwraps  me. 

In  the  eastern  sky  up-buoying, 
The  sorrowful  vast  phantom  moves  illumin'd, 
('Tis  some  mother's  large  transparent  face, 

In  heaven  brighter  glowing). 

O  strong  dead-march,  you  please  me! 
O  moon  immense  with  your  silvery  face,  you  soothe  mei 
O  my  soldiers  twain !  O  my  veterans  passing  to  burial  J 

What  I  have  I  also  give  you. 

The  moon  gives  you  light, 
And  the  bugles  and  the  drums  give  you  music, 
And  my  heart,  O  my  soldiers,  my  veterans, 

My  heart  gives  you  love. 


Drum-Taps  269 

OVER  THE  CARNAGE  ROSE  PROPHETIC  A  VOICE 

OVER  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice, 

Be  not  dishearten'd,  affection  shall  solve  the  problems  of  free 
dom  yet, 

Those  who  love  each  other  shall  become  invincible, 

They  shall  yet  make  Columbia  victorious. 

Sons  of  the  Mother  of  All,  you  shall  yet  be  victorious, 

You  shall  yet  laugh  to  scorn  the  attacks  of  all  the  remainder 
of  the  earth. 

No  danger  shall  balk  Columbia's  lovers, 

If  need  be  a  thousand  shall  sternly  immolate  themselves  for  one. 

One  from  Massachusetts  shall  be  a  Missourian's  comrade, 
From  Maine  and  from  hot  Carolina,  and  another  an  Oregonese, 

shall  be  friends  triune, 
More  precious  to  each  other  than  all  the  riches  of  the  earth. 

To  Michigan,  Florida  perfumes  shall  tenderly  come, 
Not  the  perfumes  of  flowers,  but  sweeter,  and  wafted  beyond 
death. 

It  shall  be  customary  in  the  houses  and  streets  to  see  manly 

affection, 

The  most  dauntless  and  rude  shall  touch  face  to  face  lightly, 
The  dependence  of  Liberty  shall  be  lovers, 
The  continuance  of  Equality  shall  be  comrades. 

These  shall  tie  you  and  band  you  stronger  than  hoops  of  iron, 
I,  ecstatic,  O  partners  1  O  lands !  with  the  love  of  lovers  tie  you. 

(Were  you  looking  to  be  held  together  by  lawyers? 

Or  by  an  agreement  on  a  paper?  or  by  arms? 

Nay,  nor  the  world,  nor  any  living  thing,  will  so  cohere.) 

I  SAW  OLD  GENERAL  AT  BAY 

I  SAW  old  General  at  bay, 

(Old  as  he  was,  his  grey  eyes  yet  shone  out  in  battle  like  stars), 
His  small  force  was  now  completely  hemmed  in,  in  his  works, 
He  call'd  for  volunteers  to  run  the  enemy's  lines,  a  desperate 
emergency, 


270  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  saw  a  hundred  and  more  step  forth  from  the  ranks,  but  two 

or  three  were  selected, 
I  saw  them  receive  their  orders  aside,  they  listen'd  with  care, 

the  adjutant  was  very  grave, 
I  saw  them  depart  with  cheerfulness,  freely  risking  their  lives. 

THE  ARTILLERYMAN'S  VISION 

WHILE  my  wife  at  my  side  lies  slumbering,  and  the  wars  arc 

over  long, 
And  my  head  on  the  pillow  rests  at  home,  and  the  vacant 

midnight  passes, 
And  through  the  stillness,  through  the  dark,  I  hear,  just  hear, 

the  breath  of  my  infant, 
There  in  the  room  as  I  wake  from  sleep  this  vision  presses 

upon  me; 

The  engagement  opens  there  and  then  in  fantasy  unreal, 
The  skirmishers  begin,  they  crawl  cautiously  ahead,  I  hear  the 

irregular  snap!  snap! 
I  hear  the  sound  of  the  different  missiles,  the  short  t-h-t!  t-h-t! 

of  the  rifle-balls, 
I  see  the  shells  exploding  leaving  small  white  clouds,  I  heat 

the  great  shells   shrieking  as  they  pass, 
The  grape  like  the  hum  and  whirr  of  wind  through  the  trees 

(tumultuous  now  the  contest  rages), 

All  the  scenes  at  the  batteries  rise  in  detail  before  me  again, 
The  crashing  and  smoking,  the  pride  of  the  men  in  their  pieces, 
The  chief-gunner  ranges  and  sights  his  piece  and  selects  a  fuse 

of  the  right  time, 
After  firing  I  see  him  lean  aside  and  look  eagerly  off  to  note 

the  effect; 
Elsewhere  I  hear  the  cry  of  a  regiment  charging  (the  young 

colonel  leads  himself  this  time  with  brandish'd  sword), 
I  see  the  gaps  cut  by  the  enemy's  volleys  (quickly  fill'd  up,  no 

delay), 
I  breathe  the  suffocating  smoke,  then  the  flat  clouds  hover  low 

concealing  all ; 
Now  a  strang  lull  for  a  few  seconds,  not  a  shot  fired  on  either 

side, 
Then  resumed  the  chaos  louder  than  ever,  with  eager  calls 

and  orders  of  officers, 

While  from  some  distant  part  of  the  field  the  wind  wafts  to 
my  ears  a  shout  of  applause   (some  special  success), 


Drum-Taps  271 

And  ever  the  sound  of  the  cannon  far  or  near  (rousing  even 

in  dreams  a  devilish  exultation  and  all  the  old  mad  joy  in 

the  depths  of  my  soul), 
And  ever  the  hastening  of  infantry  shifting  positions,  batteries, 

cavalry,  moving  hither  and  thither, 
(The  falling,  dying,  I  heed  not,  the  wounded  dripping  and  red 

I  heed  not,  some  to  the  rear  are  hobbling) , 
Grime,  heat,  rush,  aide-de-camps  galloping  by  or  on  a  full  run, 
With  the  patter  of  small  arms,  the  warning  s-s-t  of  the  rifles 

(these  in  my  vision  I  hear  or  see), 
And  bombs   bursting  in  air,  and  at   night  the  vari-colour'd 

rockets. 

ETHIOPIA  SALUTING  THE  COLOURS 

WHO  are  you,  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly  human, 
With  your  woolly- white  and  turban'd  head,  and  bare  bony  feet  ? 
Why  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you  the  colours  greet? 

(Tis  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sands  and  pines, 
Forth  from  thy  hovel  door  thou,  Ethiopia,  com'st  to  me, 
As  under  doughty  Sherman  I  march  toward  the  sea) . 

Me  master  years  a  hundred  since  from  my  parents  sunder'd, 
A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage  beast  is  caught, 
Then  hither  me  across  the  sea  the  cruel  slaver  brought. 

No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all  the  day, 

Her  high-borne  turban'd  head  she  wags,  and  rolls  her  darkling 

eye, 
And  courtesies  to  the  regiments,  the  guidons  moving  by. 

What  is  it,  fateful  woman,  so  blear,  hardly  human? 

Why  wag  your  head  with  turban  bound,  yellow,  red,  and  green  if 

Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvellous  you  see  or  have  seen  ? 

NOT  YOUTH  PERTAINS  TO  ME 

Nor  youth  pertains  to  me, 

Nor  delicatesse,  I  cannot  beguile  the  time  with  talk, 
Awkward  in  the  parlour,  neither  a  dancer  nor  elegant, 
In  the  learn'd  coterie  sitting  constraint  and  still,  for  learning 
inures  not  to  me, 


272  Leaves  of  Grass 

Beauty,  knowledge,  inure  not  to  me — yet  there  are  two  or 

three   things   inure  to   me, 

I  have  nourish'd  the  wounded  and  sooth'd  many  a  dying  soldier 
And  at  intervals  waiting  or  in  the  midst  of  camp, 
Composed  these  songs. 


RACE  OF  VETERANS 

RACE  of  veterans — race  of  victors! 

Race  of  the  soil,  ready  for  conflict — race  of  the  conquering 

march ! 

(No  more  credulity's  race,  abiding-temper'd  race), 
Race  henceforth  owning  no  law  but  the  law  of  itself, 
Race  of  passion  and  the  storm. 

WORLD,  TAKE  GOOD  NOTICE 

WORLD,  take  good  notice,  silver  stars  fading, 
Milky  hue  ript,  weft  of  white  detaching, 
Coals  thirty-eight,  baleful  and  burning, 
Scarlet,   significant,    hands    off   warning, 
Now  and  henceforth  flaunt  from  these  shores. 

O  TAN-FACED   PRAIRIE-BOY 

O  TAN-FACED  prairie-boy, 

Before  you  came  to  camp  came  many  a  welcome  gift, 

Praises  and  presents  came  and  nourishing  food,  till  at  last 

among  the  recruits, 
You  came,  taciturn,  with  nothing  to  give — we  but  look'd  on 

each  other, 
When  lo!  more  than  all  the  gifts  of  the  world  you  gave  me. 

LOOK  DOWN,  FAIR  MOC)N 

LOOK  down,  fair  moon,  and  bathe  this  scene, 

Pour    softly    down   night's    nimbus    floods   on    faces    ghastly, 

swollen,  purple, 

On  the  dead  on  their  backs  with  arms  toss'd  wide, 
Pour   down  your  unstinted   nimbus,  sacred  moon. 


Drum-Taps  273 

RECONCILIATION 

WORD  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky, 

Beautiful  that  war  and  all  its  deeds  of  carnage  must  in  time 

be  utterly  lost, 
That  the  hands  of   the  sisters  Death  and   Night  incessantly 

softly  wash  again,  and  ever  again,  this  soil'd  world ; 
For  my  enemy  is  dead,  a  man  divine  as  myself  is  dead, 
I  look  where  he  lies  white- faced  and  still  in  the  coffin— I  draw 

near, 
Bend  down  and  touch  lightly  with  my  lips  the  white  face  in 

the  coffin. 

HOW  SOLEMN  AS  ONE  BY  ONE 
(Washington  City,  1865) 

How  solemn  as  one  by  one, 

As  the  ranks  returning  worn  and  sweaty,  as  the  men  file  by 
where  I  stand, 

As  the  faces  the  masks  appear,  as  I  glance  at  the  faces  study 
ing  the  masks 

(As  I  glance  upward  out  of  this  page  studying  you,  dear 
friend,  whoever  you  are), 

How  solemn  the  thought  of  my  whispering  soul  to  each  in 
the  ranks,  and  to  you, 

I  see  behind  each  mask  that  wonder  a  kindred  soul, 

0  the  bullet  could  never  kill  what  you  really  are,  dear  friend, 
Nor  the  bayonet  stab  what  you  really  are; 

The  soul !  yourself  I  see,  great  as  any,  good  as  the  best, 
Waiting  secure  and  content,  which  the  bullet  could  never  kill, 
Nor  the  bayonet  stab,  O  friend. 

AS  I  LAY  WITH  MY  HEAD  IN  YOUR  LAP, 
CAMERADO 

As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap,  camerado, 
The  confession  I  made  I  resume,  what  I  said  to  you  and  the 
open  air  I  resume. 

1  know  I  am  restless  and  make  others  so, 

I  know  my  words  are  weapons  full  of  danger,  full  of  death, 
For  I  confront  peace,  security,  and  all  the  settled  laws,  to  un 
settle  them, 


274  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  am  more  resolute  because  all  have  denied  me  than  I  could 

ever  have  been  had  all  accepted  me, 
I  heed  not  and  have  never  heeded  either  experience,  cautions, 

majorities,  nor   ridicule, 

And  the  threat  of  what  is  call'd  hell  is  little  or  nothing  to  me, 
And  the  lure  of  what  is  call'd  heaven  is  little  or  nothing  to  me ; 
Dear  camerado!  I  confess  I  have  urged  you  onward  with  me, 

and  still   urge  you,  without  the  least   idea  what  is  our 

destination, 
Or  whether   we  shall  be   victorious,  or  utterly   quell'd   and 

defeated. 


DELICATE  CLUSTER 

DELICATE  cluster !  flag  of  teeming  life ! 
Covering  all  my  lands — all   my  seashores   lining! 
Flag  of  death !  (how  I  watch'd  you  through  the  smoke  of  bat 
tle  pressing! 

How  I  heard  you  flap  and  rustle,  cloth  defiant!) 
Flag  cerulean — sunny  flag,  with  the  orbs  of  night  dappled! 
Ah.  my  silvery  beauty — ah,  my  woolly  white  and  crimson ! 
Ah,  to  sing  the  song  of  you,  my  matron  mighty  I 
My  sacred  one,  my  mother. 

TO  A   CERTAIN   CIVILIAN 

DID  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me? 

Did  you  seek  the  civilian's  peaceful  and  languishing  rhymes? 

Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard  to  follow? 

Why  I  was  not  singing  erewhile  for  you  to  follow,  to  under 
stand — nor  am  I  now; 

(I  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war  was  born, 

The  drum-corps'  rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet  music,  I  love  well 
the  martial  dirge, 

With  slow  wail  and  convulsive  throb  leading  the  officer's 
funeral;) 

What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as  I?  therefore  leave 
my  works, 

And  go  lull  yourself  with  what  you  can  understand,  and  with 
piano-tunes, 

For  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  understand  me. 


Drum  Taps  275 

LO,  VICTRESS  ON  THE  PEAKS 

Lo,  Victress  on  the  peaks, 

Where  thou  with  mighty  brow  regarding  the  world, 

(The  world,  O  Libertad,  that  vainly  conspired  against  thee), 

Out  of  its  countless  beleaguering  toils,  after  thwarting  them 
all, 

Dominant,  with  the  dazzling  sun  around  thee, 

Flauntest  now  unharm'd  in  immortal  soundness  and  bloom— 
lo,  in  these  hours  supreme, 

No  poem  proud,  I  chanting  bring  to  thee,  nor  mastery's  rap 
turous  verse, 

But  a  cluster  containing  night's  darkness  and  blood-dripping 
wounds, 

And  psalms  of  the  dead. 

SPIRIT  WHOSE  WORK  IS  DONE 

(Washington  City,  1865) 

SPIRIT  whose  work  is  done — spirit  of  dreadful  hours! 
Ere  departing  fade  from  my  eyes  your  forests  of  bayonets; 
Spirit  of  gloomiest  fears  and  doubts    (yet  onward  ever  un 
faltering  pressing), 
Spirit  of  many  a  solemn  day  and  many  a  savage  scene — electric 

spirit, 
That  with  muttering  voice  through  the  war  now  closed,  like 

a  tireless  phantom  flitted, 
Rousing  the  land  with  breath  of  flame,  while  you  beat  and 

beat  the  drum, 
Now  as  the  sound  of  drum,  hollow  and  harsh  to  the  last, 

reverberates  round  me, 
As  your  ranks,  your  immortal  ranks,  return,  return  from  the 

battles, 

As  the  muskets  of  the  young  men  yet  lean  over  their  shoulders, 
As  I  look  on  the  bayonets  bristling  over  their  shoulders, 
As  those  slanted  bayonets,  whole  forests  of  them  appearing  in 

the  distance,  approach  and  pass  on,  returning  homeward, 
Moving  with  steady  motion,  swaying  to  and  fro  to  the  right 

and  left, 

Evenly  lightly  rising  and  falling  while  the  steps  keep  time ; 
Spirit  of  hours  I  knew,  all  hectic  red  one  day,  but  pale  as 

death  next  day> 


276  Leaves  of  Grass 

Touch  my  mouth  ere  you  tfepart,  press  my  lips  close, 

Leave  me  your  pulses  of  rage — bequeath  them  to  me — fill  me 

with  currents  convulsive, 
Let  them  scorch  and  blister  out  of  my  chants  when  you  are 

gone, 
Let  them  identify  you  to  the  future  in  these  songs. 

ADIEU  TO  A  SOLIDER 

ADIEU,  O  soldier, 

You  of  the  rude  campaigning  (which  we  shared), 

The  rapid  march,  the  life  of  the  camp, 

The  hot  contention  of  opposing  fronts,  the  long  manoevre, 

Red  battles  with  their    slaughter,   the  stimulus,    the    strong 

terrific  gamef 
Spell  of  all  brave  and  manly  hearts,  the  trains  of  time  through 

you  and  like  of  you  all  fill'd, 
With  war  and  war's  expression. 

Adieu,  dear  comrade, 

Your  mission  is  fulfill'd— but  I,  more  warlike, 

Myself  and  this  contentious  soul  of  mine, 

Still  on  our  own  campaigning  bound, 

Through  untried  roads  with  ambushes,  opponents  lined, 

Through  many  a  sharp  defeat  and  many  a  crisis,  often  baffled, 

Here  marching,  ever  marching  on,  a  war  fight  out — aye  here, 

To  fiercer,  weightier  battles  give  expression. 

TURN,  O  LIBERTAD 

TURN,  O  Libertad,  for  the  war  is  over, 

From  it  and  all  henceforth  expanding,  doubting  no  more, 

resolute,  sweeping  the  world, 

Turn  from  lands  retrospective  recording  proofs  of  the  past, 
From  the  singers  that  sing  the  trailing  glories  of  the  past, 
From  the  chants  of  the  feudal  world,  the  triumphs  of  kings, 

slavery,  caste, 
Turn  to  the  world,  the  triumphs  reserv'd  and  to  come — give  up 

that  backward  world, 

Leave  to  the  singers  of  hitherto,  give  them  the  trailing  past, 
But  what  remains  remains  for  singers  for  you — wars  to  come 

are  for  you, 
(Lo,  how  the  wars  of  the  past  have  duly  inured  to  you,  and 

the  wars  of  the  present  also  inure;) 


Drum-Taps  277 

Then  turn,  and  be  not  alarm'd,  O   Libertad — turn  your  un 
dying  face, 

To  where  the  future,  greater  than  all  the  past, 
Is  swiftly,  surely  preparing  for  you. 

TO  THE  LEAVEN'D  SOIL  THEY  TROD 

To  the  leaven'd  soil  they  trod  calling  I  sing  for  the  last 
(Forth  from  my  tent  emerging  for  good,  loosing,  untying  the 

tent- ropes), 
In  the  freshness  the  forenoon  air,  in  the  far-stretching  circuits 

and  vistas  again  to  peace  restored, 
To  the  fiery  fields  emanative  and  the  endless  vistas  beyond,  to 

the  South  and  the  North, 
To  the  leaven'd  soil  of  the  general  Western  world  to  attest  my 

songs, 

To  the  Alleghanian  hills  and  the  tireless  Mississippi, 
To  the  rocks  I  calling  sing,  and  all  the  trees  in  the  woods, 
To  the  plains  of  the  poems  of  heroes,  to  the  prairies  spreading 

wide, 
To  the  far-off  sea  and  the  unseen  winds,  and  the  sane  im- 

palable  air; 

And  responding  they  answer  all  (but  not  in  words), 
The  average  earth,  the  witness  of  war  and  peace,  acknowledges 

mutely, 
The  prairie  draws  me  close,  as  the  father  to  bosom  broad  the 

son, 
The  Northern  ice  and  rain  that  began  me  nourish  me  to  the 

end, 
But  the  hot  sun  of  the  South  is  to  fully  ripen  my  songs. 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT 
LINCOLN 

WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOM'D 


WHEN  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the 

night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 


O  powerful  western  fallen  star ! 

O  shades  of  night — O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great  star  disappear'd — O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  star! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless — O  helpless  soul  of  me ! 

O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 


In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the  white- 
wash'd  palings, 

Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves 
of  rich  green, 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the  per 
fume  strong  I  love, 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle — and  from  this  bush  in  the  dooryard, 

With  delicate-colour'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of 
rich  green, 

A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


278 


Memories  of  President  Lincoln       279 

4 

In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 

Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life  (for  well,  dear  brother,  I  know, 

If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely  die). 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the  violets 

peep'd  from  the  ground,  spotting  the  grey  debris, 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes,  passing  the 

endless  grass, 
Passing  the  yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its  shroud 

in  the  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards, 
Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the 

land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with  the  cities  draped  in 

black, 
With  the  show  of  the   States  themselves   as  of  crape-veil'd 

women  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of  the 

night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and 

the  unbared  heads, 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  sombre 

faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  shout  and  voices  rising 

strong   and   solemn, 


280  Leaves  of  Grass 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd  around  the 

coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs — where  amid 

these  you  journey, 

With  the  tolling,  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
Ljjive  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 


(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song  for  you, 
O  sane  and  sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 

For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you,  O  death.) 

8 

O  western  orb,  sailing  the  heaven, 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I 

walk'd, 

As  I  Walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me  night 

after  night, 
As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my  side  (while 

the  other  stars  all  look'd  on), 
As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night   (for  something  I 

know  not  what  kept  me  from  sleep), 
As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west  how 

full  you  were  of  woe, 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the  cool  trans 
parent  night, 
As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  netherward 

black  of  the  night, 
As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where  you,  sad 

orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 


Memories  of  President  Lincoln       281 
9 

Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer,  bashful  and  tender,  I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear  your 

call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star  has  detain'd  me, 
The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me. 

10 

O  how  shall  1  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that 

has  gone? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  the  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western  sea, 

till  there  on  *he  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

1! 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  grey  smok* 

lucid  and  bright, 
With   floods   of  the  yellow   gold   of   the  gorgeous,   indolem, 

sinking  sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air, 
With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green 

leaves  of  the  trees  prolific, 
In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with 

a  wind-dapple  here  and  there, 
With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against 

the  sky,  and  shadows, 
And  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of 

chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the  work 
men  homeward  returning. 


282  Leaves  of  Grass 

12 

Lo,  body  and  soul — this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurry 
ing  tides,  and  the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the 

light,  Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover'd  with  grass  and  corn. 
Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 
The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 
The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 
The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

13 

Sing  on,  smg  on,  you  grey-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant  from 

the  bushes, 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on,  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender ! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul — O  wondrous  singer ! 

You  only  I  hear — yet  the  star  holds  me  (but  will  soon  depart), 

Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odour  holds  me. 

14 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of  spring, 

and  the  farmers  preparing  their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its  lakes  and 

forests, 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty  (after  the  perturb'd  winds  and 

the  storms), 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of   the  afternoon   swift  passing, 

and  the  voices  of  children  and  women, 
The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they 

sail'd, 


Memories  of  President  Lincoln       283 

And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields  all 

busy  with  labour, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each 

with  its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages, 
And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the  cities 

pent — lo,  then  and  there, 
Falling  upon   them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me 

with  the  rest, 

Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear'd  the  long  black  trail, 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of 

death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of  me, 
And  the  thought  of  death  close- walking  the  other  side  of  me, 
And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the 

hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in 

the   dimness, 
To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so  still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 

The  grey-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us  comrades  three. 

And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 

From  the  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still, 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night, 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of   cool-enfolding   death. 


284  Leaves  of  Grass 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome* 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  un 
falteringly. 

Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously  sing  the 

dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Loved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  death. 
From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 
Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  feast' 

ings  for  thee, 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky 

are  fitting. 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose  voice 

1  know, 

A:id  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well-veil'd  death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and 

the  prairies  widj, 
Over  the  dense-pack'd  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and 

wavs. 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee.  0  death. 

15 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  grey-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes   spreading  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 


Memories  o.f  President  Lincoln       285 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne   through   the   smoke   of    the  battles   and   pierc'd    with 

missiles  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and  torn  and 

bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs   (and  all  in 

silence), 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 

They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not, 

The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd, 

And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 

16 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying  song  of 

my  soul, 
Victorious  song  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever-altering 

song, 
As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and   falling, 

flooding  the  night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning,  and  yet 

again  bursting  with  joy, 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses, 
Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  door-yard,  blooming,  returning  with 

spring. 

1  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,   fronting  the  west,  com 
muning  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  grey-brown  bird, 


2*86  Leaves  of  Grass 

And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 

With  the  lustrous  and   drooping  star  with   the  countenance 

full  of  woe, 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call  of  the 

bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever  to 

keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands — and 

this  for  his  dear  sake, 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 

O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 

O  CAPTAIN  I  my  Captain jXour  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  £fzry,/tfck,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I^hfear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  O  heart!   heart!   heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of   red. 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  hung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turn 
ing; 

Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your   head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won; 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


Memories  of  President  Lincoln       287 

HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 
(May  4,  1865) 

Hush'd  be  the  camps  to-day, 

And  soldiers,  let  us  drape  our  war-worn  weapons, 
And  each  with  musing  soul  retire  to  celebrate, 
Our  dear  commander's  death. 

No  more  for  him  life's  stormy  conflicts, 
Nor  victory,  nor  defeat — no  more  time's  dark  events, 
Charging  like  ceaseless  clouds  across  the  sky. 
But  sing,  poet,  in  our  name, 

Sing  of  the  love  we  bore  him — because  you,  dweller  in  camps, 
know  it  truly. 

As  they  invault  the  coffin  there, 

Sing — as  they  close  the  doors  of  earth  upon  him — one  verse, 

For  the  heavy  hearts  of  soldiers. 

THIS  DUST  WAS  ONCE  THE  MAN 

THIS  dust  was  once  the  man, 

Gentle,  plain,  just,  and  resolute,  under  whose  cautious  hand, 
Against  the  foulest  crime  in  history  known  in  any  land  or  age, 
Was  saved  the  Union  of  these  States. 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE 

i 

BY  blue  Ontario's  shore, 

As  I  mused  of  these  warlike  days  and  of  peace  return'd,  and 
the  dead  that  return  no  more, 

A  Phantom  gigantic,  superb,  with  stern  visage  accosted  me, 

Chant  me  the  poem,  it  said,  that  comes  from  the  soul  of 
America,  chant  me  the  carol  of  victory, 

And  strike  up  the  marches  of  Libertad,  marches  more  power 
ful  yet, 

And  sing  me  before  you  go  the  song  of  the  throes  of 
Democracy. 

(Democracy,  the  destin'd  conqueror  yet  treacherous  lip-smiles 

everywhere, 
And  death  and  infidelity  at  every  step.) 


A  Nation  announcing  itself, 

I  myself  make  the  only  growth  by  which  I  can  be  appreciated, 

I  reject  none,  accept  all,  then  reproduce  all  in  my  own  forms. 

A  breed  whose  proof  is  in  time  and  deeds, 

What  we  are  we  are,  nativity  is  answer  enough  to  objections, 

We  wield  ourselves  as  a  weapon  is  wielded, 

We  are  powerful  and  tremendous  in  ourselves, 

We  are  executive  in  ourselves,  we  are  sufficient  in  the  variety 

of  ourselves, 

We  are  the  most  beautiful  to  ourselves  and  in  ourselves, 
We  stand  self-pois'd  in  the  middle,  branching  thence  over  the 

world, 
From    Missouri,    Nebraska,    or    Kansas,    laughing  attacks    to 

scorn. 

Nothing  is  sinful  to  us  outside  of  ourselves, 
Whatever  appears,  whatever  does  not  appear,  we  are  beauti 
ful  or  sinful  in  ourselves  only. 

288 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  289 


(O  Mother— O  Sisters  dear! 

If  we  are  lost,  no  victor  else  has  destroy 'd  us, 

It  is  by  ourselves  we  go,  down  to  eternal  night.) 


Have  you  thought  there  could  be  but  a  single  supreme? 

There  can  be  any  number  of  supremes — one  does  not  counter 
vail  another  any  more  than  one  eyesight  countervails 
another,  or  one  life  countervails  another. 

All  is  eligible  to  all, 

All  is  for  individuals,  all  is  for  you, 

No  condition  is  prohibited,  not  God's  or  any. 

All  comes  by  the  body,  only  health  puts  you  rapport  with  the 
universe. 

Produce  great  Persons,  the  rest  follows. 

4 

Piety  and  conformity  to  them  that  like, 

Peace,  obesity,  allegiance,  to  them  that  like, 

I  am  he  who  tauntingly  compels  men,  women,  nations, 

Crying,  Leap  from  your  seats  and  contend  for  your  lives! 

I  am  he  who  walks  the  States  with  a  barb'd  tongue,  question 
ing  every  one  I  meet, 

Who  are  you  that  wanted  only  to  be  told  what  you  knew 
before? 

Who  are  you  that  wanted  only  a  book  to  join  you  in  your 
nonsense? 

(With  pangs  and  cries  as  thine  own,  O  bearer  of  many  chil 
dren, 
These  clamours  wild  to  a  race  of  pride  I  give.) 

O  land,  would  you  be  freer  than  all  that  has  ever  been  before? 
If  you  would  be  freer  than  all  that  has  been  before,  come 
listen  to  me. 


290  Leaves  of  Grass 

Fear  grace,  elegance,  civilisation,  delicatesse, 
Fear  the  mellow  sweet,  the  sucking  of  honey-juice, 
Beware  the  advancing  mortal  ripening  of  Nature, 
Beware  what  precedes  the  decay  of  the  ruggedness  of  states 
and  men. 


Ages,    precedents,    have    long    been    accumulating    undirected 

materials, 
America  brings  builders,  and  brings  its  own  styles. 

The  immortal  poets  of  Asia  and  Europe  have  done  their  work 

and  pass'd  to  other  spheres, 
A  work  remains,  the  work  of  surpassing  all  they  have  done. 

I 
America,  curious  toward  foreign  characters,  stands  by  its  own 

at  all  Hazards, 
Stands  removed,  spacious,  composite,  sound,  initiates  the  true 

use  of  precedents, 
Does  not  repel  them  or  the  past  or  what  they  have  produced 

under  their  forms, 
Takes  the  lesson  with  calmness,  perceives  the  corpse  slowly 

borne  from  the  house, 
Perceives  that  it  waits  a  little  while  in  the  door,  that  it  was 

fittest  for  its  days, 
That  its  life  has  descended  to  the  stalwart  and  well-shaped 

heir  who  approaches, 
And  that  he  shall  be  fittest  for  his  days. 

Any  period  one  nation  must  lead, 

One  land  must  be  the  promise  and  reliance  of  the  future. 

These  States  are  the  amplest  poem, 

Here  is  not  merely  a  nation  but  a  teeming  Nation  of  nations, 

Here  the  doings  of  men  correspond  with  the  broadcast  doings 

of  the  day  and  night, 

Here  is  what  moves  in  magnificent  masses  careless  of  particulars, 
Here  are  the  roughs,  beards,  friendliness,  combativeness,  the 

soul  loves, 
Here  the  flowing  trains,  here  the  crowds,  equality,  diversity, 

the  soul  loves. 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  291 


Land  of  lands  and  bards  to  corroborate! 

Of  them  standing  among  them,  one  lifts  to  the  light  a  west- 
bred  face, 
To  him  the  hereditary  countenance  bequeath'd  both  mother's 

and  father's, 

His  first  parts  substances,  earth,  water,  animals,  trees, 
Built  of  the  common  stock,  having  room  for  far  and  near, 

Used  to  dispense  with  other  lands,  incarnating  this  land, 

Attracting  it  body  and  soul  to  himself,  hanging  on  its  neck 
with  incomparable  love, 

Plunging  his  seminal  muscle  into  its  merits  and  demerits, 

Making  its  cities,  beginnings,  events,  diversities,  wars,  vocal 
in  him, 

Making  its  rivers,  lakes,  bays,  embouchure  in  him, 

Mississippi  with  yearly  freshets  and  changing  chutes,  Colum 
bia,  Niagara,  Hudson,  spending  themselves  lovingly  in  him, 

If  the  Atlantic  coast  stretch  or  the  Pacific  coast  stretch,  he 
stretching  with  them  North  or  South, 

Spanning  between  them  East  and  West,  and  touching  what 
ever  is  between  them, 

Growths  growing  from  him  to  offset  the  growths  of  pine, 
cedar,  hemlock,  live-oak,  locust,  chestnut,  hickory,  cotton- 
wood,  orange,  magnolia, 

Tangles  as  tangled  in  him  as  any  canebrake  or  swamp, 

He  likening  sides  and  peaks  of  mountains,  forests  coated  with 
northern  transparent  ice, 

Off  him  pasturage  sweet  and  natural  as  savanna,  upland 
prairie, 

Through  him  flights,  whirls,  screams,  answering  those  of  the 
fish-hawk,  mocking-bird,  night-heron,  and  eagle, 

His  spirit  surrounding  his  country's  spirit,  unclosed  to  good 
and  evil, 

Surrounding  the  essences  of  real  things,  old  times  and  present 
times, 

Surrounding  just  found  shores,  islands,  tribes  of  red  aborigines, 

Weather-beaten  vessels,  landings,  settlements,  embryo  stature 
and  muscle, 

The  haughty  defiance  of  the  Year  One,  war,  peace,  the  forma 
tion  of  the  Constitution, 

The  separate  States,  the  simple  elastic  scheme,  the  immigrants, 


292  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  Union  always  swarming  with  blatherers  and  always  sure 
and  impregnable, 

The  unsurvey'd  interior,  log-houses,  clearings,  wild  animals, 
hunters,  trappers, 

Surrounding  the  multiform  agriculture,  mines,  temperature, 
the  gestation  of  new  States, 

Congress  convening  every  Twelfth-month,  the  members  duly 
coming  up  from  the  uttermost  parts, 

Surrounding  the  noble  character  of  mechanics  and  farmers, 
especially  the  young  men, 

Responding  their  manners,  speech,  dress,  friendships,  the  gait 
they  have  of  persons  who  never  knew  how  it  felt  to  stand 
in  the  presence  of  superiors, 

The  freshness  and  candour  of  their  physiognomy,  the  copious 
ness  and  decision  of  their  phrenology, 

The  picturesque  looseness  of  their  carriage,  their  fierceness 
when  wrong'd, 

The  fluency  of  their  speech,  their  delight  in  music,  their 
curiosity,  good  temper,  and  open-handedness,  the  whole 
composite  make, 

The  prevailing  ardour  and  enterprise,  the  large  amativeness, 

The  perfect  equality  of  the  female  with  the  male,  the  fluid 
movement  of  the  population, 

The  superior  marine,  free  commerce,  fisheries,  whaling,  gold- 
digging, 

W^iarf-hemm'd  cities,  railroad  and  steamboat  lines  intersect 
ing  all  points, 

Factories,  mercantile  life,  labour-saving  machinery,  the  North 
east,  North-west,  South-west, 

Manhattan  firemen,  the  Yankee  swap,  southern  plantation  life, 

Slavery — the  murderous,  treacherous  conspiracy  to  raise  it 
upon  the  ruins  of  all  the  rest, 

On  and  on  to  the  grapple  with  it — Assassin !  then  your  life  or 
ours  to  the  stake,  and  respite  no  more. 


(Lo,  high  toward  heaven,  this  day, 

Liberated,  from  the  conqueress'  field  return'd, 

I  mark  the  new  aureola  around  your  head, 

No  more  of  soft  astral,  but  dazzling  and  fierce, 

With  war's  flames  and  the  lambent  lightnings  playing, 

And  your  port  immovable  where  you  stand, 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  293 

With   still  the  inextinguishable  glance  and   the  clinch'd  and 

lifted  fist, 
And  your  foot  on  the  neck  of  the  menacing  one,  the  scorner 

utterly  crush'd  beneath  you, 
The  menacing  arrogant  one  that  strode  and  advanced  with  his 

senseless  scorn,  bearing  the  murderous  knife, 
The  wide-swelling  one,  the  braggart  that  would  yesterday  do 

so  much, 

To-day  a  carrion  dead  and  damn'd,  the  despised  of  all  the  earth, 
An  offal  rank,  to  the  dunghill  maggots  spurn'd.) 

8 

Others  take  finish,  but  the  Republic  is  ever  constructive  and 
ever  keeps  vista, 

Others  adorn  the  past,  but  you,  O  days  of  the  present,  J 
adorn  you 

O  days  of  the  future  I  believe  in  you — I  isolate  myself  for 
your  sake, 

O  America,  because  you  build  for  mankind  I  build  for  you, 

O  well-beloved  stone-cutters,  I  lead  them  who  plan  with  de 
cision  and  science, 

Lead  the  present  with  friendly  hand  toward  the  future. 

(Bravas  to  all  impulses  sending  sane  children  to  the  next  age! 
But  damn  that  which  spends  itself  with  no  thought  of  the 
stain,  pains,  dismay,  feebleness,  it  is  1  equeathing.) 


I  listened  to  the  Phantom  by  Ontario's  shore, 
I  heard  the  voice  arising  demanding  bards, 
By  them  all  native  and  grand,  by  them  alone  can  these  States 
be  fused  into  the  compact  organism  of  a  Nation. 

To  hold  men  together  by  paper  and  seal  or  by  compulsion  is 

no  account, 
That  only  holds  men  together  which  aggregates  all  in  a  living 

principle,  as  the  hold  of  the  limbs  of  the  body  or  the  fibres 

of  plants. 

Of  all  races  and  eras  these  States  with  veins  full  of  poetical 
Stuff  most  need  poets,  and  are  to  have  the  greatest,  and 
use  them  the  greatest, 


294  Leaves  of  Grass 

Their  Presidents  shall  not  be  their  common  referee  so  much 
as  their  poets  shall. 

(Soul  of  love  and  tongue  of  fire! 

Eye  to  pierce  the  deepest  deeps  and  sweep  the  world! 
Ah,   Mother,  prolific  and   full   in  all   besides,  yet  how   long 
barren,  barren?) 

10 

Of  these  States  the  poet  is  the  equable  man, 

Not  in  him  but  off  from  him  things  are  grotesque,  eccentric, 
fail  of  their  full  returns, 

Nothing  out  of  its  place  is  good,  nothing  in  its  place  is  bad, 

He  bestows  on  every  object  or  quality  its  fit  proportion, 
neither  more  nor  less, 

He  is  the  arbiter  of  the  diverse,  he  is  the  key, 

He  is  the  equaliser  of  his  age  and  land, 

He  supplies  what  wants  supplying,  he  checks  what  wants  check 
ing, 

In  peace  out  of  him  speaks  the  spirit  of  peace,  large,  rich, 
thrifty,  building  populous  towns,  encouraging  agriculture, 
arts,  commerce,  lighting  the  study  of  man,  the  soul,  health, 
immortality,  government, 

In  war  he  is  the  best  backer  of  the  war,  he  fetches  artillery  as 
good  as  the  engineer's,  he  can  make  every  word  he  speaks 
draw  blood, 

The  years  straying  toward  infidelity  he  withholds  by  his  steady 
faith, 

He  is  no  arguer,  he  is  judgment  (Nature  accepts  him  abso 
lutely), 

He  judges  not  as  the  judge  judges  but  as  the  sun  falling 
round  a  helpless  thing, 

As  he  sees  the  farthest  he  has  the  most  faith, 

His  thoughts  are  the  hymns  of  the  praise  of  things, 

In  the  dispute  on  God  and  eternity  he  is  silent, 

He  sees  eternity  less  like  a  play  with  a  prologue  and  denoue 
ment, 

He  sees  eternity  in  men  and  women,  he  does  not  see  men 
and  women  as  dreams  or  dots. 

For  the  great  Idea,  the  idea  of  perfect  and  free  individuals, 
For  that,  the  bard  walks  in  advance,  leader  of  leaders, 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  295 

The  attitude  of  him  cheers  up  slaves  and  horrifies   foreign 
despots. 

Without  extinction  is  Liberty,  without  retrograde  is  Equality, 
They  live  in  the  feelings  of  young  men  and  the  best  women, 
(Not   for  nothing  have   the  indomitable  heads  of  the  earth 
been  always  ready  to  fall  for  Liberty). 

11 

For  the  great  Idea, 

That,  O  my  brethren,  that  is  the  mission  of  poets. 

Songs  of  stern  defiance  ever  ready, 

Songs  of  the  rapid  arming  ai.d  the  march, 

The  flag  of  peace  quick-folded,  and  instead  the  flag  we  know, 

Warlike  flag  of  the  great  Idea. 

(Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping! 

I  stand  again  in  leaden  rain  your  flapping  folds  saluting, 

I  sing  you  over  all,  flying  beckoning  through  the  fight — 

O  the  hard-contested  fight! 
The  cannons  ope  their  rosy-flashing  muzzles — the  hurtled 

balls  scream, 
The  battle-front  forms  amid  the  smoke — the  volleys  pour 

incessant  from  the  line, 
Hark,  the  ringing  word  Charge! — now  the  tussle  and  the 

furious  maddening  yells, 

Now  the  corpses  tumble  curl'd  upon  the  ground* 
Cold,  cold  in  death,  for  precious  life  of  you, 
Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping.) 

12 

Are  you  he  who  would  assume  a  place  to  teach  or  be  a 

poet  here  in  the  States? 
The  place  is  august,  the  terms  obdurate. 

Who  would  assume  to  teach  here  may  well  prepare  him 
self  body  and  mind, 
He  may  well  survey,  ponder,  arm,  fortify,  harden,  make 

lithe  himself, 
He    shall    surely   be    question'd    beforehand   by   me    with 

many  and  stern  questions. 


296  Leaves  of  Grass 

Who  are  you  indeed  who  would  talk  or  sing  to  America? 

Have  you  studied  out  the  land,  its  idioms  and  men? 

Have  you  learn'd  the  physiology,  phrenology,  politics, 
geography,  pride,  freedom,  friendship  of  the  land? 
its  substratums  and  objects? 

Have  you  consider'd  the  organic  compact  of  the  first  day 
of  the  first  year  of  Independence,  sign'd  by  the  Com 
missioners,  ratified  by  the  States,  and  read  by  Wash 
ington  at  the  head  of  the  army? 

Have  you  possess'd  yourself  of  the  Federal  Constitution? 

Do  you  see  who  have  left  all  feudal  processes  and  poems 
behind  them,  and  assumed  the  poems  and  processes 
of  Democracy? 

Are  you  faithful  to  things?  do  you  teach  what  the  land 
and  sea,  the  bodies  of  men,  womanhood,  amativeness, 
heroic  angers,  teach? 

Have  you  sped  through   fleeting  customs,  popularities? 

Can  you  hold  your  hand  against  all  seductions,  follies, 
whirls,  fierce  contentions?  are  you  very  strong? 
are  you  really  of  the  whole  People? 

Are  you  not  of  some  coterie?  some  school  or  mere 
religion? 

Are  you  done  with  reviews  and  criticisms  of  life?  ani 
mating  now  to  life  itself? 

Have  you  vivified  yourself  from  the  maternity  of  these 
States? 

Have  you  too  the  old  ever-fresh  forbearance  and  impar 
tiality? 

Do  you  hold  the  like  love  for  those  hardening  to  matur 
ity?  for  the  last-born?  little  and  big?  and  for  the 
errant? 

What  is  this  you  bring  my  America? 

Is  it  uniform  with  my  country? 

Is  it  not  something  that  has  been  better  told  or  done 
before? 

Have  you  not  imported  this  or  the  spirit  of  it  in  some 
ship? 

Is  it  not  a  mere  tale?  a  rhyme?  a  prettiness?— is  the 
good  old  cause  in  it? 

Has  it  not  dangled  long  at  the  heels  of  the  poets,  poli 
ticians,  literats,  of  enemies'  lands? 

Does  it  not  assume  that  what  is  notoriously  gone  is  still 
here? 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  297 

Docs  it  answer  universal  needs?    will  it  improve  manners? 

Does  it  sound  with  trumpet-voice  the  proud  victory  of 
the  Union  in  that  secession  war? 

Can  your  performance  face  the  open  fields  and  the  seaside? 

Will  it  absorb  into  me  as  I  absorb  food,  air,  to  appear 
again  in  my  strength,  gait,  face? 

Have  real  employments  contributed  to  it?  original  makers, 
not  mere  amanuenses? 

Does  it  meet  modern  discoveries,  calibres,  facts,  face  to 
face? 

What  does  it  mean  to  American  persons,  progresses, 
cities?  Chicago,  Kanada,  Arkansas? 

Does  it  see  behind  the  apparent  custodians,  the  real  cus 
todians  standing,  menacing,  silent,  the  mechanics, 
Manhattanese,  Western  men,  Southerners,  significant 
alike  in  their  apathy  and  in  the  promptness  of  their  love? 

Does  it  see  what  finally  befalls,  and  has  always  finally 
befallen,  each  temporiser,  patcher,  outsider,  partialist, 
alarmist,  infidel,  who  has  ever  ask'd  anything  of  America? 

What  mocking  and  scornful  negligence? 

The  track  strew'd  with  the  dust  of  skeletons, 

By  the  roadside  others  disdainfully  toss'd. 

13 

Rhymes    and   rhymers   pass    away,   poems    distill'd   from 

poems  pass  away, 
The  swarms  of  reflectors  and  the  polite  pass,  and  leave 

ashes, 
Admirers,  importers,  obedient  persons,  make  but  the  soil 

of  literature, 

America  justifies  itself,  give  it  time,  no  disguise  can  de 
ceive  it  or  conceal  from  it>  it  is  impassive  enough, 
Only  toward  the  likes  of  itself  will  it  advance  to  meet 

them, 
If  its  poets  appear  it  will  in  due  time  advance  to  meet 

them,  there  is  no  fear  of  mistake, 
(The   proof   of   a   poet   shall   be   sternly   deferred  till   his 

country    absorbs    him    as    affectionately    as    he    has 

absorb'd  it). 

He  masters  whose  spirit  masters,  he  tastes  sweetest  who 
results  sweetest  in  the  long  run, 


298  Leaves  of  Grass 

The  blood  of  the  brawn  beloved  of  time  is  unconstraint; 

In  the  need  of  songs,  philosophy,  an  appropriate  native 
grand-opera,  shipcraft,  any  craft. 

He  or  she  is  greatest  who  contributes  the  greatest  orig 
inal  practical  example. 

Already  a   nonchalant  breed,   silently   emerging,   appears 

on  the  streets, 
People's  lips  salute  only  doers,  lovers,  satisfiers,  positive 

knowers, 
There  will  shortly  be  no  more  priests,  I  say  their  work  is 

done, 
Death  is  without  emergencies  here,  but  life  is  perpetual 

emergencies  here^ 
Are  your  body,  days,  manners,  superb?    after  death  you 

shall  be  superb, 
Justice,  health,  self-esteem,  clear  the  way  with  irresistible 

power ; 
How  dare  you  place  anything  before  a  man? 

14 

Fall  behind  me  States! 

A  man  before  all — myself,  typical,  before  all. 

Give  me  the  pay  I  have  served  for, 

Give  me  to  sing  the  songs  of  the  great  Idea,  take  all  the 

rest, 

I  have  loved  the  earth,  sun,  animals,  I  have  despised  riches, 
I  have  given  alms  to  every  one  that  ask'd,  stood  up  for  the 

stupid  and  crazy,  devoted  my  income  and  labour  to 

others, 
Hated  tyrants^  argued  not  concerning  God,  had  patience 

and  indulgence  toward  the  people,  taken  off  my  hat 

to  nothing  known  or  unknown, 
Gone  freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons  and  with 

the  young,  and  with  the  mothers  of  families, 
Read  these  leaves  to  myself  in  the  open  air,  tried  them 

by  trees,  stars,  rivers, 
Dismiss'd  whatever  insulted  my  own  soul  or  denied  my 

body, 
Gaim'd   nothing  to   myself   which   I   have   not   carefully 

claim'd  for  others  on  the  same  terms, 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  299 

Sped  to  the  camps,  and  comrades  found  and  accepted 
from  every  State, 

(Upon  this  breast  has  many  a  dying  soldier  lean'd  to 
breathe  his  last, 

This  arm,  this  hand,  this  voice,  have  nourish'd,  rais'd,  re 
stored, 

To  life  recalling  many  a  prostrate  form)  ; 

I  am  willing  to  wait  to  be  understood  by  the  growth  of 
the  taste  of  myself, 

Rejecting  none,  permitting  all. 

(Say,  O  Mother,  have  I  not  to  your  thought  been  faithful? 
Have  I  not  through  life  kept  you  and  yours  before  me?) 

15 

I  swear  I  begin  to  see  the  meaning  of  these  things, 
It  is  not  the  earth,  it  is  not  America  who  is  so  great, 
It  is  I  who  am  great  or  to  be  great,  it  is  You  up  there, 

or  any  one, 
It  is  to  walk  rapidly  through  civilisations,  governments, 

theories, 
Through  poems,  pageants,  shows,  to  form  individuals. 

Underneath   all,   individuals. 

I  swear  nothing  is  good  to  me  now  that  ignores  in 
dividuals, 

The  American  compact  is  altogether  with  individuals. 

The  only  government  is  that  which  makes  minute  of 
individuals, 

The  whole  theory  of  the  universe  is  directed  unerringly 
to  one  single  individual — namely  to  You. 

(Mother!   with  subtle  sense  severe,  with  the  naked  sword 

in  your  hand,, 
I  saw  you  at  last  refuse  to  treat  but   directly  with   in« 

dividuals.) 

16 

Underneath  all,  Nativity, 

I  swear  I  will  stand  by  my  own  nativity,  pious  or  im 
pious  so  be  it; 


300  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  swear  I  am  charm'cl  with  nothing  except  nativity, 
Men*    women,    cities,    nations,    are    only    beautiful    from 
nativity. 

Underneath   all   is  the   Expression   of   love   for   men   and 

women, 
(I  swear  I  have  seen  enough  of  mean  and  impotent  modes 

of  expressing  love  for  men  and  women, 
After   this   day   I   take   my   own    modes   of    expressing   love 

for  men  and  women). 

I  swear  I  will  have  each  quality  of  my  race  in  myself, 
(Talk  as  you  like,  he  only  suits  these  States  whose  man 
ners   favour  the   audacity  and   sublime   turbulence   of 
the  States). 

Underneath  the  lessons  of  things,  spirits,  Nature,  govern 
ments,  ownerships,  I  swear  I  perceive  other  lessons, 

Underneath  all  to  me  is  myself,  to  you  yourself  (the 
same  monotonous  old  song). 

17 

0  I  see  flashing  that  this  America  is  only  you  and  me. 
Its  power,  weapons,  testimony,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  crimes,  lies,  thefts,  defections,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  Congress  is  you  and  me,  the  officers,  capitols,  armies, 

ships,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  endless  gestations  of  new  States  are  you  and  me, 
The  war  (that  war  so  bloody  and  grim,  the  war  I  will 

henceforth  forget),  was  you  and  me, 
Natural  and  artificial  are  you  and  me, 

Freedom,  language,  poems,  employments,  are  you  and  me, 
Past,  present,  future,  are  you  and  me. 

1  dare  not  shirk  any  part  of  myself, 
Not  any  part  of  America  good  or  bad, 

Not  to  build  for  that  which  builds  for  mankind, 

Not  to  balance  ranks,  complexions,  creeds,  and  the  sexes, 

Not  to  justify  science  nor  the  march  of  equality, 

Nor  to  feed  the  arrogant  blood  of  the  brawn  belov'd  of  time. 

I  am  for  those  that  have  never  been  master'd, 
For   men   and   women    whose   tempers   have    never    been 
master'd, 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  301 

For  those  whom  laws,  theories,   conventions,   can    never 

master. 

I  am  for  those  who  walk  abreast  with  the  whole  earth, 
Who  inaugurate  one  to  inaugurate  all. 

I  will  not  be  outfaced  by  irrational  things, 

I  will  penetrate  what  it  is  in  them  that  is  sarcastic  upon 

me, 

I  will  make  cities  and  civilisations  defer  to  me, 
This    is    what    I    have    learnt    from    America — it    is    the 

amount,  and  it  I  teach  again. 

(Democracy,   while   weapons   were   everywhere   aim'd   at 

your  breast, 
I  saw  you  serenely  give  birth  to  immortal  children,  saw  ir> 

dreams  your  dilating  form, 
Saw  you  with  spreading  mantle  covering  the  world.) 

18 

I  will  confront  these  shows  of  the  day  and  night, 

I  will  know  if  I  am  to  be  less  than  they, 

[  will  see  if  I  am  not  as  majestic  as  they, 

[  will  see  if  I  am  not  as  subtle  and  real  as  they, 

[  will  see  if  I  am  to  be  less  generous  than  they, 

t  will  see  if  I  have  no  meaning,  while  the  houses   and 

ships  have  meaning, 
I  will  see  if  the  fishes   and  birds  are  to  be  enough  for 

themselves,  and  I  am  not  to  be  enough  for  myself. 

I  match  my  spirit  against  yours  you  orbs,  growths,  moun 
tains,  brutes, 

Copious  as  you  are  I  absorb  you  all  in  myself,  and  be 
come  the  master  myself, 

America  isolated  yet  embodying  all,  what  is  it  finally  ex 
cept  myself? 

These  States,  what  are  they  except  myself? 

I  know  now  why  the  earth   is  gross,  tantalising,  wicked,  it 

is  for  my  sake, 
I  take  you  specially  to  be  mine,  you  terrible,  rude  forms. 

(Mother,  bend  down,  bend  close  to  me  your  face, 


302  Leaves  of  Grass 

I  know  not  what  these  plots  and  wars   and  deferments 

are  for, 
I  know  not  fruition's  success,  but  I  know  that  through 

war  and  crime  your  work  goes  on.,  and  must  yet  go 

on.) 

19 

Thus  by  blue  Ontario's  shore, 

While  the  winds  fann'd  me  and  the  waves  came  trooping 

toward  me, 
I  thrill'd  with  the  power's  pulsations,  and  the  charm  of 

my  theme  was  upon  me, 
Till  the  tissues  that  held  me  parted  their  ties  upon  me. 

And  I  saw  the  free  souls  of  poets, 
The  loftiest  bards  of  past  ages  strode  before  me, 
Strange  large  men,  long  unwaked,  undisclosed,  were  dis 
closed  to  me. 

20 

O  my  rapt  verse,  my  call,  mock  me  not  I 

Not  for  the  bards  of  the  past,  not  to  invoke  them  have 

I  launch'd  you  forth, 
Not   to    call    even    those    lofty    bards    here    by    Ontario's 

shores, 
Have  I  sung  so  capricious  and  loud  my  savage  song. 

Bards  for  my  own  land  only  I  invoke 

(For  the  war,  the  war  is  over,  the  field  is  clear'd), 

Till  they  strike  up  marches  henceforth  triumphant   and 

onward, 
To  cheer,  O  Mother,  your  boundless  expectant  soul. 

Bards  of  the  great  Idea!  bards  of  the  peaceful  inventions! 
(for  the  war,  the  war  is  over!) 

Yet  bards  of  latent  armies,  a  million  soldiers  waiting 
ever-ready, 

Bards  with  songs  as  from  burning  coals  or  the  lightning's 
fork'd  stripes ! 

Ample  Ohio's,  Kanada's  bards — bards  of  California !  in 
land  bards — bards  of  the  war! 

You  by  my  charm  I  invoke. 


By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  303 

REVERSALS 

Let  that  which  stood  in  front  go  behind, 
Let  that  which  was  behind  advance  to  the  front, 
Let  bigots,  fools,  unclean  persons,  offer  new  propositions, 
Let  the  old  propositions  be  postponed, 
Let  a  man  seek  pleasure  everywhere  except  in.  himself, 
Let  a  woman  seek  happiness  everywhere  except  in  her 
self. 


INDEX  QF  FIRST  LINES 

Page 

Aboard  at  a  ship's  helm 222 

A  California   song 178 

Adieu,    O    soldier 276 

Afoot  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road 125 

After  the  sea-ship,  after  the  whistling  winds 226 

Ages  and  ages  returning  at  intervals 93 

A  glimpse  though  an  interstice  caught....  s Ill 

A  great  year  and  place 202 

(Ah,  little  recks  the  labourer 169 

A  leaf  for  hand  in  hand Ill 

A  line  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green 

islands 256 

All  you  are  doing  and  saying  is  to  America  dangled 

mirages 234 

Always  our  old  f euillage  ! 146 

A    march    in    the    ranks    hard-prest,    and    the    road 

unknown 260 

A  mask,  a  perpetual  natural  disguiser  of  herself 237 

Among  the  men  and  women  the  multitude 113 

And    now,    gentlemen 103 

An  old  man  bending  I  come  among  new  faces 263 

A  promise  to  California 110 

Are  you  the  new  person  drawn  toward  me? 105 

ArnVd  year — year  of  the  struggle 241 

As  Adam  early  in  the  morning 96 

As  I  ebb'd  with  the  ocean  of  life 219 

A  sight  in  camp  in  the  day  break  grey  and  dim 261 

As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap,  camerado 273 

As  I  pondered  in  silence 

A  song  for  occupations ! 182 

A  song  of  the  rolling  earth,  and  of  words  according....  189 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods 262 

A  thousand  perfect  men  and  women  appear 238 

A  woman   waits   for   me,   she   contains   all,  nothing 

is  lacking 88 

305 


306 


Leaves  of  Grass 


Page 

Beatl  beat!  drums !— blow  1  bugles!  blow! 242 

Beginning  my  studies  the  first  step  pleas'd  me  so  much  7 

Behold  this  swarthy  face,  these  grey  eyes 107 

By  blue  Ontario's  shore 288 

By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame.. 257 

City  of  orgies,  walks,  and  joys 107 

City  of  ships  ! 251 

Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble 100 

Come  my  tan-faced  children 197 

Come  up  from  the  fields,  father,  here's  a  letter  from 

our  Pete 258 

Come,  said  the  Muse 195 

Delicate  cluster !  flag  of  teeming  life ! 274 

Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ? 274 

Earth,  my  likeness Ill 

Facing  west  from  California's  shores 96 

Fast-anchor'd  eternal  O  Love!  O  woman  I  love! 113 

First  O  songs  for  a  prelude 239 

Flood-tide  below  me!  I  see  you  face  to  face 135 

For  him  I  sing 6 

Forms,  qualities,  lives,  humanity,  language,  thoughts  232 

From  Paumanok  starting  I  fly  like  a  bird 242 

From  pent-up  aching  rivers 79 

Full  of  life  now,  compact,  visible 114 

<Jive  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams 

full-dazzling 266 

Give  me  your  hand,  old  Revolutionary 252 

Gliding  o'er  all,  through  all 237 

Hast  never  come  to  thee  an  hour 237 

Here,  take  this  gift 8 

Here  the  frailest  leaves  of  me  and  yet  my  strongest 

lasting HO 

Hold  it  up  sternly— see  this  it  sends  back  (who  is 

it?  is  it  you?) 231 

How  solemn  as  one  by  one 273 

How  they  are  provided  for  upon  the  earth  (appearing 

at   intervals) 7 


Index  of  First  Lines  307 

Page 

Hush'd  be  the  camps  to-day 287 

I  am  he  that  aches  with  amorous  love 94 

I  celebrate  myself,  and  sing  myself 24 

I  dream'd  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the 

attacks  of  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  earth..  Ill 

I  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear 9 

I  heard  that  you  ask'd  for  something  to  prove  this 

puzzle  the  New  World 3 

I  heard  you  solemn-sweet  pipes  of  the  organ  as  last 

Sunday  morn  I  pass'd  the  church 95 

I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to 

destroy  institutions 108 

I  met  a  seer. .  „ 4 

In  cabin'd  ships  at  sea 2 

In  paths  untrodden 97 

I  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing 107 

I  saw  old  General  at  bay 269 

I  see  before  me  now  a  travelling  army  halting 257 

I  see  the  sleeping  babe  nestling  the  breast  of  its 

mother 236 

I  see  in  you  the  estuary  that  enlarges  and  spreads 

itself  grandly  as  it  pours  in  the  great  sea 238 

I  sing  the  body  electric 81 

I  sit  and  look  upon  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world 

and  upon  all  oppression  and  shame 234 

Let  that  which  stood  in  front  go  behind 303 

Locations  and  times — what  is  it  in  me  that  meets 

them  all 238 

Long,  too  long,  America 266 

Look  down,  fair  moon,  and  bathe  this  scene 272 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea 9 

Lover  divine  and  perfect  Comrade..... 232 

Lo,  Victress  on  the  peaks 275 

Many  things  to  absorb  I  teach  to  help  you  become 

eleve  of  mine 112 

Me  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature 8 


308  Leaves  of  Grass 


Page 

Myself  and  mine  gymnastic  ever 203 

Native  moments — when  you  come  upon  me — ah,  you 

are    here    now 94 

No   labour-saving  machine 110 

Not  heat  flames  up  and  consumes 106 

Not  heaving  from  my  ribb'd  breast  only 102 

Not  the  pilot  has  charged  himself  to  bring  his  ship 
into  port,  though  beaten  back  and  many  times 

baffled 263 

Not  youth  pertains  to  me 271 

Now  list  to  my  morning's  romanza,  I  tell  the  signs 

of  the  Answerer 141 

O  a  new  song,  a  free  song 243 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done 286 

Of  Equality — as  if  it  harm'd  me,  giving  others  the 
same  chances  and  rights  as  myself — as  if  it  were 
not  indispensable  to  my  own  rights  that  others 

possess  the  same 237 

Of  Justice — as  if  Justice  could  be  anything  but  the 
same  ample  law,  expounded  by  natural  judges  and 

saviours, 237 

Of  obedience,  faith,  adhesiveness 237 

Of  ownership — as  if  one  fit  to  own  things  could  not 
at  pleasure  enter  upon  all,  and  incorporate  them 

into  himself  or  herself 233 

Of  the  terrible  doubt  of  appearances 102 

O  Hymen !  O  hymenee !  why  do  you  tantalise  me  thus      94 
O  me!  O  life!  of  the  questions  of  these  recurring..     234 

On  a  flat  road  runs  the  well-train'd  runner 236 

Once  I  pass'd  through  a  populous  city  imprinting  my 
brain  for  future  use  with  its  shows,  architecture, 

customs,  traditions 95 

One  hour  to  madness  and  joy!  O  furious!  O  confine 

me  not ! 92 

One's-self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person 1 

On  journeys  through  the  States  we  start 8 


Index  of  First  Lines  309 

Page 
Only  themselves  understand  themselves  and  the  like 

of  themselves 233 

On  the  beach  at  night 223 

On  the  beach  at  night  alone 224 

O  take  my  hand,  Walt  Whitman! 115 

O  tan-faced  prairie-boy 272 

O  to  make  the  most  jubilant  song! 151 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking 213 

Out  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop 

gently  to  me 93 

Over  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice 269 

Over  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come 209 

O  you  whom  I  often  and  silently  come  where  you 

are  that  I  may  be  with  you 113 

Passing  stranger !  you  do  not  know  how  longingly 

I  look  upon  you 108 

Poets  to  come!  orators,  singers,  musicians  to  come!  10 

Race  of  veterans — race  of  victors  ! 272 

Recorders  ages  hence 104 

Rise,  O  days,  from  your  fathomless  deeps,  till  you 

loftier,  fiercer  sweep 249 

Roaming  in  thought  over  the  Universe,  I  saw  the 

little    that    is    Good    steadily    hastening   towards 

immortality  236 

Roots  and  leaves  themselves  alone  are  these 105 

Scented  herbage  of  my  breast 97 

Shut  not  your  doors  to  me,  proud  libraries 10 

Silent  and  amazed  even  when  a  little  boy 236 

Skirting  the  river  road  (my  forenoon  walk,  my  rest)  235 
Sometimes  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with  rage  for 

fear  I  effuse  unreturn'd  love 112 

Spirit  whose  work  is  done — spirit  of  dreadful  hours !  275 

Spontaneous  me,  Nature 90 

Starting  from  fish-shape  Paumanok  where  I  was  born  12 

Still  though  the  one  I  sing 10 

Stranger,  if  you  passing  meet  me  and  desire  to  speak 

to  me,  why  should  you  not  speak  to  me? 11 


310  Leaves  of  Grass 

Page 
Suddenly  out  of  its  stale  and  drowsy   lair,  the   lair 

of  slaves 230 

Tears  !  tears  !  tears  1 221 

That    shadow    my    likeness    that    goes    to    and    fro 

seeking   livelihood,   chattering,  .chaffering 113 

The  last  sunbeam 268 

The  noble  sire  fallen  on  evil  days 251 

The  prairie-grass  dividing,  its  special  odour  breathing  109 

These  I  singing  in  spring  collect  for  lovers 101 

The   world   below   the   brine 224 

This  dust  was  once  the  man 287 

This  moment  yearning  and  thoughtful  sitting  alone  108 
Thither  as  I  look  I  see  each  result  and  glory  retrac 
ing  itself  and  nestling  close,  always  obligated..  9 
Thou  reader  throbbest  life  and  pride  and  love   the 

same   as    1 11 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm 222 

Through    the    ample    open    door    of    the    peaceful 

country  barn 236 

To-day  a  rude  brief  recitative 225 

To  get  betimes  in  Boston  town  I  rose  this  morning 

early 228 

To  the  East  and  to  the  West. . .  = 112 

To  thee,  old  cause! 3 

To  the  garden,  the  world  anew  ascending 79 

To    the    leaven'd   soil   they   trod    calling   I    sing   for 

the   last 277 

To  the  States  or  any  one  of  them,  or  any  city  of  the 

States,    7 

Trickle  drops!  my  blue  veins   leaving! 106 

Turn,  O  Libertad,  for  the  war  is  over 276 

Vigil  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night 259 

Weapon  shapely,  naked,  wan 158 

We  two  boys   together   clinging 110 

We  two,  how  long  we  were  fool'd 93 

What    place    is    besieged,   and   vainly   tries   to    raise 

the    siege? 10 


Index  of  First  Lines  311 

Page 

What  think  you  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  record?..  112 

What  you  give  me  I  cheerfully  accept 235 

When  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  how  my  name 

had  been  receiv'd  with  plaudits  in  the  capitol,  still 

it  was  not  a  happy  night  for  me  that  follow'd..  104 

When  I  heard  the  learned  astronomer 233 

When  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  heroes  and  the 

victories  of  mighty  generals,  I  do  not  envy  the 

generals 109 

When  I  read  the  book,  the  biography  famous 7 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd 278 

While  my  wife  at  my  side  lies  slumbering,  and  the 

wars  are  over  long 270 

Who  are  you,  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly  human  271 

Whoever  you  are  holding  me  now  in  hand 99 

Whoever  you  are,  I  fear  you  are  walking  the  walks 

of  dreams 200 

Why  reclining,  interrogating?  why  myself  and  all 

drowsing  238 

Wild,  wild  the  storm,  and  the  sea  high  running 226 

With  antecedents 206 

With  its  cloud  of  skirmishers  in  advance 257 

Women  sit  or  move  to  and  fro,  some  old,  some  young  236 

Word  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky 273 

World,  take  good  notice,  silver  stars  fading 272 

Year  of  meteors!  brooding  year! 205 

Year  that  trembled  and  reel'd  beneath  me? 263 

Youth,  large,  lusty,  loving — youth  full  of  grace,  force, 

fascination 194 

You  who  celebrate  bygones 3 


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